About the Light

You think the words are gone? That you took them away, sent them away, frightened them away?

No.

About that light...the one on the ceiling...

It reminded me of you, Sir. The flame swayed and the shadows danced, but the light itself didn't falter or fail. In the small hours, as you spoke and spoke and poured yourself out and drew yourself back in, I stared at the candle before me, at the pattern of circles and lines of light that made a sun on the ceiling. I was cold, Sir...

And you were this great, blazing thing. I felt as insignificant as a mote of dust caught up in the wind, made bold to try and gather some of your warmth into my frozen core...and stared at the light, alone.

It was a sun, yes, but also an eye...golden, wide pupiled, hypnotic, it stared back at me as I tried to find my way into its center. I was a shadow, and I was listening from my corner. I heard the hard edges of your words when you spoke to yourself, and how you softened when the little cat Tiger caught you attention, and I wished I could bring that softness, that gentleness, to you and I wished I could get lost in the center of that light, immolated, turned to ash, remade. I wished that I could be lost in your eyes, Sir...

And while you were in one place, within your own darkness and struggle and rage...I was in another. Lost in my world, I couldn't reach yours, so I kept my distance and stared into the light.

That light.

The candle lit to help guide you to where you needed to be. The flame kept alive for months. I watched it move, listened as you paced, felt myself fall farther and farther away...held in place at last by nothing more than that small, tenacious light.