Candle light

He had a creamy, smooth face with a short streak of hair. His face was clean yet delicate, soft to the touch. Standing tall, he never wavered nor grew old, years went by and he still looked the same. He stood at the sides, watching people shuffle about, quietly waiting for his time. 

And so opportunity knocked. His fake friends on the ceilings, on the walls, simultaneously burned out. Even his fake neighbours lost their artificial technology. The power that his friends depended on was gone. He laughed in the corner; how weak these bulbs were when faced with a true challenge. He continued to watch his fellow friends struggle to connect back with their power and try to burn back on. But he knew that darkness would embrace them for a while. 

The people gave out cries of surprise and grabbed for their flashlights. Yet flashlights were temporary heroes, depending on tubes of power for their light. They drink out the portable energy within the cylinders. He admired their tenacity, but still knew that he was the one with true self power. The people seemed to realize as well.

Soon, hands were reaching for him. He wished they wouldn't grab so hard. Even though he has a long life, he was not immortal. His soft skin couldn't take much pressure. The people brought him down and gave him a quick bath, dusting off the layering dust. His family also was pulled out from their homes, stretching out their bodies and anticipated some action. 

He felt a sharp stinging pain at the tip of his head and relished the feeling after such a long time. In the cabinet, he often wondered whether or not he still existed. What is an existence without the sense of feel? His hair was on fire and he was burning bright. He became increasingly pleased when he realized that he was the first to be torched. One by one, the rest of his brothers and sisters where equally bright. 

He jumped with joy, at last, it was freedom. The little orange flame on top flickered and danced in the darkness. With the true strength of his kin, they waved around until their pale light illuminated the room. He smiled at his friends on the ceiling and bathed in the praise and compliments. He knew he was being more than arrogant, but it wasn't often which he was able to shine bright. He continued to wave and bend, creating mesmerizing patterns on the wall. His brothers helped him engage the dark shadows into their exotic dance. His sisters moved at a slower pace, reciprocating the sun's glow during twilight. 

The candle let out a sudden pulse as he picked up a scent. His perfumed members of his family were joining the party! Letting of different smells of nature: of wild strawberries, lemony citrus, sweet peach, and fresh spring grass. The smell of the woods, of cedar trees and honey rivers enveloping the room with warm arms. A wave of flower blossoms soon washed over him, triggering a small sneeze. Oh! allergy season is here!

Suddenly, a cold draft swiped through the room. His little flame dipped and wavered, struggling to stay upright. His siblings were going through the same toil, jerking around like a crazy choreographed dance. As the wind ran by, the candles calmed down and caught their breaths. There were no casualties tonight. 

It was getting late and they were tired. The dancing was slow, stretching out long, then coming back in graceful waves. He watched as his sister, shrinking in age, began to waver. He wished he could call out to her, to warn her of the danger, but she smiled knowingly back. 

Tears ran down the side of her body and she continued to grow smaller. She gave one last wink before drowning in her blood. He continued to watch, for that was all he knew how to do, as she faded into the darkness. Her ashes rose in a wisp of smoke, like a ghost walking away. He dipped his flame in farewell and soon the smell of incense was prominent. He knew that was how he would go. Being there for people, yet no funeral to honour his services.

Finally, the people realized that their electricity was not going to come back. With nothing better to do, they headed of to bed. Coming to relieve them from their duties, the candles were blown out. Just like that, the bright flames vanished into a wispy stream. 

He was stationed at the back of the room and so he followed the trail of his sleeping siblings. Then it was his turn. He burned a bit brighter, stood a bit taller, even though he lost a considerable amount of his body. His tears dried up at his side like droplets of rain. He gave one last flicker of light and he too, was drifting into smoke. 

Returning to his cabinet, the candle was exhausted. His hair was burnt into a crisp but still ready for service. His smooth skin was bumpy with dried up tears and his head curved inwards. His delicate face was hardened, stronger. He settled back and continued to watch people shuffle about, quietly waiting for his time.

Leather Gloves

The wind bit our red cheeks as we shuffled our shivering legs towards the warmth of a brightly lit mall. Checking our watch constantly, we rushed through the chilly January traffic. The soft snowflakes fluttered down from a light grey sky, swirling into a distasteful glop as it landed on the busy road. Fighting the bitter winter wind we stomped inside the store blowing in tufts of snow. Inside was a quiet him, peaceful and pleasant as people milled around aimlessly.

Yet we were set with a purpose. We marched towards the stairs, snow melting off of our faux fur lined jackets, dampening them. The pleasantly occupied mall passed as a blur, our eyes focusing on one store in particular.

It was my father's birthday that day and my sister and I set out, with money in our pockets and a single goal; to purchase a gift. Ever since Christmas, when my father dropped the fact that his old leather gloves has seen better day, we knew we had the perfect gift idea. Yet Christmas came and passed, and we had not sought out after the prized gloves. It was a mix between laziness and confusion. We never really bought our parents a gift, we usually wrote them a card or went to buy some form of food, always in their presence. This time we wanted our gift to be a surprise.

We decided on a date, to go get our farther a gift. Giddy with excitement, we envisioned or father's face when he would see the present. And with a sinking feeling, we realized we didn't know how large his hands were. His worn and flaking gloves were usually worn whenever our father left the house. 

And so we got our mother in the plan. Our house was under renovations, and my father, along with my mother needed to head out to buy laminate flooring. She would, when they left the hardware store, call us and warn us of their return. With a shocking, yet welcome surprise, my sister discovered that my father had brought in his gloves for the day. Quickly hiding the gloves deep in the recess of the closet, we constantly dropped hints to our farther to leave the house.

"Aren't you suppose to go buy flooring?" I asked innocently while observing the passive form of my father as he surfed the web.

"Uh huh," he replied absentmindedly.

Finally, after much wheedling from our mom, he relented and went down to take his coat. My sister and I watched from our peripheral vision as my father put on his hat. About to leave, he suddenly spun around, remembering to bring something.

"Can you pass me my gloves, they should me in my bag," my father called out from the door.

With a sinking feeling my sister put on a show as she rummaged through his thick bag.

"I don't see them," she declared, acting surprised at the absence of the gloves.

Sighing, my dad shrugged off his coat to search the bag himself. Finding no trace of them, he proceeded to look in his coat pockets.

"Maybe it's in the closet," my sister suggested as my dad searched around the living room. We realized that he would not leave without the gloves

"No, they wouldn't be, I did not put them there," he replied, as he bent over to check under the couch.

"Oh I saw mom putting them away in the closet," my sister persisted, already opening the door.

Uttering a fake exclaim of surprise and triumph, she pulled out the pair of worn gloves. With my father gone now, we were presented with another problem, we did not know his hand size anymore.

We entered the store anyways, where a cheery saleswoman asked if we needed assistance. Directing is towards the glove section, we stared at the large assortment.

"So," I began, testing a glove on, "How do we do this?"

With a smug smile, my sister looked over the gloves.

As she had handed over the gloves to my father a little while earlier, she had proceeded in measuring the size of the glove in relation to her own hand.

At the store she began planning her hand onto of the different sizes, estimating his approximate hand size. Pulling around different gloves, we searched for a right style.

Again, we did not know his preference on color or shape, so we opted to get him similar gloves to the older ones. And with a great disappointment, we found that they did not have to correct size. Going for our second choice, a simple, yet classy pair of black leather gloves, we proceeded to the cashier.

Giving us a gift bag, we skipped home, buying a cup of coffee along the way.

The weather outside seemed warmer and the clouds seemed to disperse a bit, letting through more light. We arranged the gift on my father's chair, the cup of coffee comfortably in each on his desk, the gloves in a suitable size with white tissue paper poking out.

As my father name home, we hid our look of excitement, and smiled at his delighted outburst from his study.

Momma Phipps

Momma Phipps is my math teacher in school. At the beginning of the school year, she told us that we could call her anything we wanted to like Momma Phipps, Auntie Phipps, etc. From a far glance, she has an intimidating look, one of the nonsense teachers.

When I didn't have her as my teacher, my class was always a bit scared of her for we could hear her yelling in her classroom. When she walks down the halls, she is never in a rush. Some teachers stride from room to room, holding stacks of files, and are probably late for a meeting of some sort. Not Mrs. Phipps. She would slowly walk to her classroom and look around at the students milling about.

Sometimes, we would find her outside her classroom with a student. Usually she yells in class but once outside, she speaks quietly. Her words would be deliberate and precise; silent anger is the worst form of anger. The student would always simply nod with a grim face while constantly rubbing their hands and twisting their shirts. They scurried away as quick as possible after she lets them go.

This changed when she became our math teacher. When we walked into her class, she told us to sit wherever we wanted. After the whole class got settled, she made introductions. There was a mini traffic light in the back of the class that monitors the noise level of the classroom. Momma Phipps claimed that if the light flashed red, then the principal would walk in and give us all detention. We decided to test the light and asked if we could all say "Hello!" at the same time. The light made a beeping sound and Momma Phipps held up her hands in surrender and kept claiming that the principal was going to pop in the door any minute now. The class laughed.

On that first day, we didn't do any work. Instead, she told us about life. Every few classes, she would start the lesson with a story from her past about her education. When one of my classmates would complain about how stressed they were with school, or the struggles that they faced, she would stop the lesson and give us advice.

So when the lesson first began, she started with an account of her childhood. She was one child among many brothers and sisters. Most of the time, she couldn't get any time for studying because of all the chores she had to do. She needed to take care of her baby brothers, cleaning diapers, making sure they get fed, etc. When she finally moved in with her much older sister, she was able to follow her dreams of learning on the condition that she takes care of her sister's children.

The story paused there and she explained that she has a very strict bottom line for offense and insults. She told us clearly that bullying is severe and will be highly frowned upon in her class.

As she was going to high school, many kids would bully her and put her down, mainly because of her skin colour and her race. They thought that people who came from her background (Caribbean) wouldn't be able to understand the things being taught. They thought that because she was a girl, she should just stay at home. Many people would say such things to her but she continued to pursue her passion. When she first started off, she was getting really low marks, barely passing. Her teachers offered her support while her classmates brushed her off.

Momma Phipps told us that when something doesn't go as planned or if life gets tough, it's okay to break down. When she received her test back and if she got a bad mark, she would go home and have a good cry. Then she'd wipe away the tears and continue studying, this time, harder. Little by little, her grades got higher until she noticed that she had strength in math. When she was in grade 11, she noticed that she wasn't the 'stupid' girl and that she was actually quite brilliant.

Ending the story, she gave us a metaphor. Everyone is a star in a galaxy. Each star shining to give the world its light. Everyone is a star and don't let anyone steal your shine.

That was my first class with Momma Phipps. After her speech, the whole class was quiet, processing the information. Unlike the rest of my teachers, Momma Phipps actually understood, she connected with her students. We realized that when she was 'yelling' in class, she wasn't angry - she was just getting excited by her lessons and giving passion in her words.

She was a teacher, a friend, a fighter. She was Momma Phipps.