The grief of dreams echos through bones, veins, and heart. Sighs fall soundless, like grey December rain outside the window. There's been too many losses, far too many wounds to the spirit. The question is, as always, how to go on. As usual the day started on the sun porch with tea and a cigarette. The white candle would not light. Such a small ritual to mean so much. Such a small, fragile, light offered to what's left of hope.
I hate cheap candles. Far too often the wicks are dipped, wet and undependable, into molten wax. I held the lighter's flame to the wick again and again. Nothing. The wick would go red with futile effort, refusing to catch. The perfect metaphor for life these days, weeks, years. I should be used to it by now.
There are reasons.
My own, and others. An adult child's illness. A friend's struggle to keep her home. Money running out far before the end of the month. Wondering if the car will last. Worried about staying warm. But especially and always, the child, who, like so many, deserves far, far, better.
It's a grey day, rain sighing from the grey sky. The candle would not light. The child's treatment, did not work. And in an email, the President asked if I'd like to join him for dinner. Only a small donation necessary for such a chance. But what little money we have for "extras" goes to necessities. Buying the grand boy's Mother gas, so she can drive to work. Helping someone who is hurting as best we can. And so many are hurting. I wish there was more that we could do.
It would have been fun to send in a donation, to imagine being invited to dinner. The conversation. The different stories. I'd ask for the President's help for my friend, so she doesn't lose her home. I'd ask for a moratorium on foreclosures, so families aren't spending the winter, homeless and afraid. Oh, yes. I would ask for that.
Such dreamings, in the midst of so many desperate hopes. The invitation was incongruous , ill fitting the world too many of us inhabit.
It's the Season of Light, and the candle remained dark.
This is my RSVP to a dinner invitation. This is the frail comfort and consolation of words. This is the struggling candle of my heart, lit against the dark.
We need light again, Mr. President, before hope and words fail. Before all our dreams die.