The Ballad of a First Noel
She did not believe in forevers
with promises made
in a moment of glittering
tree-lights. Silent Night played
in the background as she gave the ring box back
to him, unopened.
She said:
Ask me to be yours, forever, on a day that isn’t cursed.
He saw then, the young girl in her eyes —
whose own parent’s marriage capsized at
Christmastime.
He saw, then asked:
Which holiday, then? She shook her head.
They are all cursed, she said, so very sure.
And so the waves keep rippling
out. They crash into shore
without softness — unrelenting.
They pull sand — out from underfoot,
ankles sink in, stuck — because
nothing is solid
when nowhere
is sound.
He knew then, the gold ornament he’d bought
for her finger
would never fit.
Waiting, biding his time, (not too long)
he chose a day — unremarkable — in every way
but one. And in a plain, white box, he proffered
a candle and matches —
boxes and boxes of a thousand matches, one
for each day
of each year.
(He’d done the math).
A candle to light every dim and dark night, and he
asked her then if she would light it
with him — within the forever of their time together —
until the candle, the matches — one or both,
or together (he hoped) were swept away,
far away to sea.
Her eyes swam with life, glowing — no
golden rings, perfumes, or sweets oozing
cherry-hearts could have
ever ignited that flame.
No trappings or bows could heal
within, her wary, tattered shores.
The love he offered was one that required
a careful, steady tending.
And no trinket would ever make her
wholly whole, not ever — And so.
The years — they
passed by.
They bought more matches
while shopping for dinner, without
fanfare or rice (their only cheat.)
While shopping for sod they bought a larger candle —
a nod of acknowledgment that an ending was there,
but too far-off to concern or consider.
They lit the wick each night — each day —
taking vows in the most ordinary of ways.
They vowed as they painted walls in
the den. They vowed while making love in the candle’s
glow. They vowed with each word — un-and-spoken — and with
each child born. Each midnight feeding, every
croupy-cough-illness and Parent-Teacher
conference; each plumbing snafu, each ordinary trek from
shore to shore to shore.
They lit and re-lit endless candles,
their perilous glow lit with intention.
Both lovers knowing, deep within,
that Eternal Flames from myth and legend
when ignited by mere mortals — in hubris-filled,
love-drunk states, with rosy-
lens-hope — these
are the flames
that come to be
entirely
snuffed
out.
Snuffed or blown away, the
sudden dark —
only terror-filled —
if one does not know the
nature…
of
flame.
Promises made with gold
are too-easily carried out to sea
to be pillaged by the lowest bidder or
drowned in high tide.
That shimmering sand
(glass ornaments of the sea)
is
Illusion, disguised.
Glinting rocks, too easily
dislodged — with gusts — from their
pronged mounts.
The symbol for eternal and never-changing:
bands of gold encircling fingers…
like a string needed to remember
a dull and joyless task. A gold that can
tarnish from a single heartbreak. Handfuls of
broken, promised words that slip
like handfuls of dry, cloud-chilled grains
through lips.
No matter the number be it one, two, four or
five
gold
rings —
the disappointments come
calling, they come in waves,
crashing and crushing.
Their children loved every day
and holidays the same.
The gifts carried within
when they embarked
into the world
with its inevitable
dark, riotous
seas.
They vowed and vowed,
boxes upon boxes of time and flame,
until one day, quite unexpected, her second-ever
break came —
and broken-heartbeats — they break —
without a sound.
And so, their second silent night
of all their nights settled,
as they sat by her bedside,
holy, calm, and still.
Using his cane, he stood with intention, and
the daughter wondered to herself
why he seemed to drift away.
He picked up the box filled with matches —
symbols of hope — too many —
and he whispered
like a wind through seashore reeds:
Time to light our candle — the only light I need.
~J.A. Carter-Winward
