Sunday, July 12, 2009

The Candle



She sat at the kitchen table, motionless but hardly emotionless. Grace successfully wrestled the sobs that welled up inside. Yet it wasn’t so much an inner strength that contained those tears. Weary eyes and drooping shoulders were telltale signs of the fact that Grace was just too tired. Too tired to make the five hour train ride to turn in the money for her daughter’s tuition. Too tired to see the deception in yet another one of her husband’s promises of reformation. Too tired to cry upon hearing that David had gone off with the money only to drink and gamble it away—again.

Grace dreaded the conversation that she would have with the school’s administrator. She tried not to count how many times she’d gone through this already. Yet every time David sobered up for a few days she couldn’t help but hope that perhaps the man she thought she married was, in fact, the man he truly was.

Grace slowly moved over to her sewing machine, her hands gently smoothing the beautiful cotton dress that awaited its altering. While Grace remembered a time when this dress could have been hers, she was no longer the daughter of a wealthy businessman. Grace sighed as she glanced at her once delicate hands. The rough, needle-pricked fingers that toiled for hours each day seemed to mock her, causing her to quickly look away. Now she was a seamstress, YWCA sewing instructor, mother of four, and wife of an alcoholic, good-for-nothing gambler.

As she sat bent over the sewing machine, the room dark except for a candle that she kept for when David would come home from the bar, the voices of her friends and family echoed in her head, begging her to leave the sorry life that she was living. Grace angrily pushed those thoughts away attempting to focus on the up and down motion of the needle passing through the dress. She’d asked herself so many times why she continued to stay. Why she continued to wake up each morning, only to face the monotonous drone of the sewing machine and the endless pile of clothing that she would only be able to wear in her dreams, or vicariously through her customers. Suddenly Grace realized that she was finished with the dress. Done for the night, Grace turned off the sewing machine and wearily made her way to the bedroom. The stillness of the night was like a sanctuary to Grace as she lay down, her eyes wandering over to the shadows that danced upon the walls, the dark shapes choreographed by the constant movement of the candle’s flame. As sleep fell upon her, Grace breathed a silent prayer. That candle must not go out.

2 comments:

Karyn said...

deeply touching...especially with the music playing. the images you see in your mind are so moving Evangeline.

Thank you for posting this.

hilary said...

Thanks Evange.