The Solitary Candle
Two years ago, he had always stood there, beside the wooden doors, a little to the right of the aisle leading to the altar, as he was standing there now, smiling wanly, his figure casting very little but a hazy shadow upon the marble floor. He used to come here often, he remembered, but ill-founded priorities have shifted his directions somewhat. And so he had forgotten how it felt to have this little corner, away and apart from everything and everyone else. He had forgotten, more importantly, that within these walls, he found his sanctuary.It was, as it had always been since then, another brutal week; his desk at home rendered almost invisible under the mountain of books, the floor strewn with paper, his drawers filled with drafts and photocopied materials. Everyone expected a lot from him - his mom, his dad, his classmates - everyone; and he didn't want to let them down.
And it was a sad thought; for his life now, he felt at times, was one led almost by sheer puppetry, of home and school, and home and school, and church on Sundays, and then the cycle began anew. He was always busy, always lost behind those piles of books. He got up every morning, his face etched and set as though it was made of stone, his eyes burning with so much concentration, towering, looming, over everyone else. It was his poor semblance of power; but it was for the greater good, he would think sometimes. Eventually, it gets tiring; and he was tired now, if not, he felt, broken.
So he was thankful somewhat, as they had urgently left for elsewhere far from home, leaving him alone. This time, he wasn't flanked by the dozen million people, who were always around, but never really cared how he felt. He wasn't asked how the report was coming along; he wasn't engaged into yet another mindless banter about proving his answer on that test two weeks ago for the thirty-fourth time; he wasn't bombarded with questions like how to solve problem number three in assignment number four. He was still pretty much alone, he thought, but at least, he could get rid of all those pretensions and be, for the lack of a better word, himself.
Thus he could come, when classes were dismissed, and thus his eyes could wander around, with a sense, he thought, as though he was being reacquainted with an old friend. The angels holding the holy water stood on either side of the door, as though they were on guard. To his right, he found the confession booths - always a daunting sight, he thought, as he smiled even more wryly, as he had never quite had the courage to enter them since fifth grade, although he had resolved on doing otherwise, as he again did now. And then there were the pews, always neatly arranged, despite having been badly weathered through the years. As the sun managed to poke its head over the shifting clouds, the light threw blotches of red and yellow and green out of the stained glass windows. It's been a while, he thought, but the mosaics were still beautiful.
But his eyes finally rested upon the solitary candle, its flame a tiny pinprick in the distance, dancing playfully, burning fervently across the hall. He broke into a grin - the first one he truly had in months - for at that moment, he knew, he was no longer alone.
"Thank You," he whispered, as he began to walk across to rest.
posted by Dexter @ 3:33 PM
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