in the late afternoon,
i light
a candle in my kitchen.
the visible hours
are
few
this time of year.
my eyes
and
my heart
both
struggle to see
clearly
in this season.
there is so much
in the air
that
hides
the ache
inside
and
this longing
for
all is calm
all is bright,
is overwhelming
at times,
and
perhaps
your
star is hidden
this year?
and,
when children sing,
you,
only
have
the memory
of
what
once
was,
to unwrap
and
the edges are frayed
and
the past
is
all
that
still
breathes.
and the past
might be
your (only) present.
and,
the nights are silent,
and
dark.
sometimes.
yes,
some seasons
are not
always
merry
and
bright.
i know.
but
we
keep
moving
and
clinging
to
the
hem
of the one
who heals.
so,
i carry this small flame
through
doorways
and
heart-spaces
and
i watch it
soften
the every-day
scratchiness
of the hallway
and
heart-ways.
ready
to welcome
anyone
who should knock,
seeking.
and,
tiny lights have done
this
deep
work,
forever.
this,
keeping the dark outside,
and
holding the night at bay.
bravely.
this little light of mine
flickers
and
sometimes,
fails,
but,
it fights.
oh,
it does.
turning fearful places
into
a place of hope,
high
on
top
of
a hill,
and
you can trust
that
your light
is still
enough.
enough
to
warm
hope
so broken
and
grief,
so fierce
it would rip the fabric
of
your
being.
but it won’t.
it won’t.
although it will try.
and
we will light
(our)
tiny flames
and
we
will
breathe
in,
and
out.
in.
and.
out.
until
we return
to where we
lost
the precious thing.
where we lost our hope,
and
in the end
we will
be ok.
our stories might be
broken,
but,
stories full of light,
always
end well.
just keep burning.
— this story, ends well.
© Liezel Graham 2018.
Photograph by Inna Lesyk.
Amidst all the lovely chaos of family and Christmas preparations, some of us
get lost and get tired from trying
to hide sadness and grief.
Your story might have broken bits written into its chapters,
but hold on — stories full of light, always end well.
liezel
liezel graham 