Dust

Scentless smoke rose from the feeble flame my match had generated. I brushed my old, knobby finger through it and smiled tiredly. It held shape as I painted with the dust-like ash it sent into the air. 

“You think that nothing happens, all there is, is the village life, all you are, is the weaver’s son.”

A young, freckled beauty straddled the planks of a ship and unleashed a deep, clear melody. Patience.

“But it hasn’t ended yet.”

The sea in my mind turned dark with breathtaking speed. The woman transformed into a young man with time-hardened hands. He battled with his companions to reclaim mastery of their ship.

“You were trained.”

The inspiring light in my mother’s eyes seemed to shine through my dust painting for a brief, blessed moment. I smiled shyly, even now. Oh, how I had admired her…How I still do…

Death, the sweet passing of time, had carried my predecessors away from me, and now I waited for my turn. The wax of my candle burned low in a comforting metaphor.

The urge which had inspired my youth, the passion that had carried me through the middle-aged years of life, and the affection that had graced my wife and myself had taken rest in peace. I sat back and admired my work as it flickered in the flame of my candle.

“Asher. My happy.”

Mother’s creaky voice echoed in my ears and I laughed. What goes around, does indeed come around… I closed my eyes to reimagine her crinkled, light-filled face. It was a similar voice that had passed on the refilled box of matches…a similar voice and message passed on to the village farmer. Any weaver’s son could tell you how to wait…and any farmer’s daughter could tell you how to wait and sing with joy until the time came.

A smile spread across my tired lips all the way up to my eyes. I pried them open one last time to admire my handiwork…and closed them again.

The candle’s flame swelled and flickered with the final breath of the man who had brought so much joy to the land. The rose he had painted in ashes held steady and grew with every moment the wick continued to burn… When Andrea, the farmer’s daughter, returned, she paused at the old man’s door. She knew his passing was near. A gentle sorrow filled her chest as she nudged the door open. 

Asher’s candle was nearly gone, but above it froze a glorious flower, blooming and swelling as it engulfed the room and seemed to embody all the joy Asher had ever brought into his land. Andrea gasped…and it was gone. The flame sputtered out and she closed the door. Her father would arrange the burial. Asher and the legacy of the candles would rest for a time. But she knew, as all good farmer’s daughters knew…every hero had to spend time waiting.

Light

My mother struck a match against the box and I gasped when the innocent candle’s wick leapt into blue sparks. My eyes widened as they rose in zigzags to the ceiling. In their wake, they left a blue firefly’s trail. She smiled as she watched with me and brushed one of the smoldering sparks off of her embroidered cuff. “You know the story of your grandfather. You know the story of your great aunt. And you know my story. You have been told and know by heart the days of our waiting and our watching, our endurance as we waited for our time. Our day. The moment we would leave our home and follow our call.”

She peered deep into my eyes and I suddenly understood my grandfather’s words when he described the call of the sea. I had hoped I would follow in his footsteps. Or perhaps those of my great aunt. Or my mother’s. But watching the bright lights dart from the glowing wax of the candle, courage swelled within me. “My father was a weaver’s son. And I trained under him when he returned home and settled.” She smiled at the peaceful memory. “But you…” Her keen eyes came back to the present and caught the light of the dazzling sparks. “Asher. Happy. As a little light.” I smiled shyly in return. “You were no weaver’s son.” Mother took my hand and ran her wrinkly fingers over it gently.

“You were trained for this day. Your family has taught you what it is to wait. You understand the pride in your heritage—the grandson of a weaver.”

“Yes, ma’am.” My chest swelled with pride from mother’s praise. Her strong voice flowed through everything in me and filled it with light and energy.

“You…Asher…” She paused, savoring the mother moment, beaming at me across her old card table…grandfather’s old card table… “You have a higher calling than your predecessors. We paved your way. Anah, your aunt, travelled from far away to teach your grandfather, Adam. Your grandfather taught me, but our country was not ready for change, yet. And I have taught you. Your father and I have watched and waited. We know, now. With the fear pursuing the hearts of our people, you are more needed than ever…happy.” Again, I smiled shyly.

Mother laughed, sending the sparks into a dazzling display through all of the room. I sniffed, expecting smoke as they lighted on papers and furniture, but they simply died away when their energy was spent. “You are my happy son. Aunt Anah told my father and so he told me, every weaver’s child knows how to wait. But you are no weaver’s son, Asher. You cannot wait. Leave in the morning. Bless this country with your happiness, carry with you the grace of your mother, courage of your father, and patience of your aunt. You will carry our land through our doubt…”

With that, the light from mother’s candle went out and the smell of smoke singed my nostrils. I heard her shuffle past me…a wrinkled hand smoothed my hair and squeezed my muscled shoulder…and she left.

The words of my grandfather and great aunt echoed in my memory. “You think that nothing happens, all there is, is the village life, all you are, is the weaver’s daughter. But every story began with a quiet village life. Every hero was just a weaver’s daughter.” Grandfather’s husky voice stirred the longing within me again. I snatched up Mother’s box of matches and fastened my cloak as I turned to leave. Fear, unrest, doubt. Storms, darkness, and drought gripped my land.

“You are no weaver’s son, Asher. You cannot wait.” rang in my ears as I packed my bag. The shining beauty of my father’s home imprinted itself on my memory as I sought out my parents one last time. They smiled as I hugged them tightly and paused in the doorway. 

“I will remember, mother. Thank you, father. I love you.” They nodded and I turned quickly. This was not the end. The great stories never ended.

Rain

I watched as my father struck a match against the dry boards of his card table. His old knobby fingers seemed to creak like the sails he once ruled, but they carried the small stick of flaming wood as steadily as the wind had driven him home to us. A small smile hovered over his lips as he set the match to the candle. A tall, thin, translucent candle with recent rivulets of wax texturing its sides.

Suddenly, a burst of heat and a spray of salt stung my eyes. I blinked in surprise. Father laughed and ran his finger through the flame. “Father, what–” My eyes widened with delight as the flame succumbed to the shape of his finger and transformed into flickering water.

“Let me tell you a story, Grace…It began long, long, ago… Like all the good tales. It has a hero, and a villain, and a beautiful lady… ” His voice carried like the wind in the mountains and I closed my eyes, letting it paint pictures of the past in my mind. First came the legend of the princess…her adventures and struggles as she reclaimed our land. Her old age, when the crown passed on to another and she settled in a small village. Our village. And then the great travels of my father. It started when he was a boy. The old woman in the village, long since passed, singled him out. Gave him a blessing and a dream.

And he waited.

Because all good weaver’s sons could wait…

“And then the day came.” His voice resounded in our small cottage. The watery flame on the candle shivered and burst briefly before settling again. “I put away my loom and packed a small satchel. Every weaver’s son could wait, but my challenge was to know when to leave. At last, I did. I went to the sea, Grace, a beautiful place. It’s undulating waves that cover depths of memory and what might have beens…the spray of the salt on your lips and the smell of fish.” He laughed softly. “Dreams of calm seas and nightmares of the white foam against a cliff. I sought out my adventure. Saved your aunt and found your mother…” He leaned back, eyes closed as he reminisced. “Your mother followed me back to the sea, back to the harbor, and into our small village again…and we have lived happily ever after…”

I laughed softly and played with a strand of my earthy brown hair.

“But the story isn’t over.” His eyes snapped open and captured mine with their intensity.

“You think that nothing happens, all there is, is the village life, all you are, is the weaver’s daughter.” He leaned forward and stroked the candle’s watery flame into a shape…a dancer. I gaped at the beautiful girl, dancing on the pedestal of wick perfectly. Her seamless, fluid motion woke a longing in me as I tore my eyes back to my father. He leaned forward, a small smile playing at his weathered lips.

“But every story began with a quiet village life. Every hero was just a weaver’s daughter. Every cherished home was just a decaying cottage once.” I turned my eyes back to the shimmering dancer as she flowed with the spirit of a flame.

Suddenly, I felt a deep yearning, an urge and a pull. Adventure was calling me, but I could not answer now, not yet. Every hero had to spend time waiting, but I could wait, any weaver’s daughter could tell you how.

My father rubbed some of the melted wax from the candle onto the palm of his hand and scooped up the dancer. As she left her pedestal, the flame of every day life returned to the wick and the surge of adventure slept in my heart. We watched her spritely antics for a few more moments before…at last…she lost her shape and ran through my fathers fingers onto the table. He blew the candle out with a soft puff and smiled in the dim light. He knew what was in my heart. I smiled back, the memory of the water dancer still bright in my mind’s eye.

Salt

I published this post three years ago last January on my first blog. The candle inspired me and I couldn’t leave it alone. I never expected to write anything more in this world and leave it as a delightful snippet for myself to go back and read, but not long ago, I discovered a picture with a similar theme. Of course, this section comes first…my continuation will come next week.

I watched her as she struck the last match in her box. It glistened a moment and flared up gently. She lowered it softly and the wick caught the flame. It was a small, round, yellowing candle with wax running down around the edges. I watched on the edge of my seat waiting for her to work the magic- and then she did.

With delicate, wrinkled fingers, she sprinkled a white powder into the flame and a sliver of smoke trickled up from the wick. Some of it floated through the air and I inhaled the fresh smell of water- there was salt on my dry lips.

“It began long, long, ago… Like all the good tales. It has a hero, and a villain, and a beautiful lady… She trailed off and I watched her tilt her greying head back with memories. She sat up and looked keenly at me with her sea filled eyes.

“But it hasn’t ended yet.” I gasped. Every story- every good tale had ended long before my time, it had all finished long ago, nothing happened now. Now the world was quiet village life.  Bewilderment shone through my face and she saw it.

“You think that nothing happens, all there is, is the village life, all you are, is the weaver’s son.” She leaned forward and blew into the candle’s thin thread of smoke. A transparent quavering ship appeared. It was beautiful and I gaped. She folded her hands under her chin and she looked me in the eyes. “But every story began with a quiet village life. Every hero was just a weaver’s son. Every beautiful lady was once just a child with freckles.” I stared in wonder at the smoke picture. It flickered with the flame and glistened in the dark.

Suddenly, I felt a deep yearning, an urge and a pull. Adventure was calling me, but I could not answer now, not yet. Every hero had to spend time waiting, but I could wait, any weaver’s son could tell you how.

Every time I go back and read this, I get a small shiver of excitement. What do you think happens to our weaver’s son? Do you have more pictures of enchanted candles? Please tell me! If I find more I would like to continue stories with this theme. 🙂