Like Molten Beeswax
A musing in the attic
Under the weighted, dusty hug of the attic, she lights a candle.
It flickers as a breeze from the cracked window stirs the flame, pushing out the damp darkness. The moving flame emulates her wavering eyelids and casts moving shadows onto her face. She hears the scratch of her quill on the coarse paper as it writes — cursive letters with twists and turns. Her mind is not fully present, in turmoiled thoughts. Somehow words flow as easily as the pen‘s ink, as the river turns.
Carefully, she shifts her dress to hide the strawberry stain on the white cotton, making the wooden floorboards creak. How would anyone believe she had conjured berries in the eye of winter?
Melting wax creates a little puddle on the sandpaper floor, as droplets are added by the burning candle. Her ring finger gently daubs the fluid beeswax, reminding her of the golden bees she used to tend to on misty spring mornings. The beeswax — hot, just cold enough to not burn her — encapsulates the tip of her index finger in a soft, warming shell. It hardens in the frigid attic air and she smiles at the feeling of safety.
