The Cabin
“Heavy,” the mailman warns as he walks off. I drag the box in, pull it open, and inside there are candles, hundreds of them, all sizes and colors, some broken in two, some half burnt stubs. The note inside is brief. “Downsizing, love Mom.”
My mother has no plans of moving that I know of and isn’t close to dying. But she is getting old, and with my father gone has started off-loading bit by bit. It’s unsettling.
I know these candles from the inside of childhood drawers. They were gifts from my mother’s friends. “Beeswax!” she’d exclaim with an almost lusty exuberance, fine things excited her. And my brother and I would run in circles around the kitchen, “mind your own beeswax!” Any excuse to say that, of course. It was my job, back then, to put the candles in the candelabra. Candelabra, now that’s a word that makes you want to whirl. We were not rich or fancy people, so the once a year or so when we hauled out the silver beast, an ancient wedding present to my parents, we all felt the thrill.
But I can’t shake the resentment now – at this dead weight left at my doorstep. Are you kidding, more things? The box takes up half the cabin and is a veiled commentary on my life choices. Or maybe I’m just frustrated that I don’t own a candlestick. It takes a while to find a bottle that’ll work as one, and even longer to find a candle that doesn’t topple over.
I had similar problems with the candelabra. You’d get all three candles lined up in the holes. One would tip, then the next. It was quite a whack-a-mole situation, and you really had to keep at it. But once things were set, my mother, father, brother, and me, well, we felt mighty grand around the dining room table with that candelabra burning, burning bright.
A cheap paraffin candle works best in the bottle now, but who gifted this crude oil? “Girls can do anything now, and you’re doing this?” my mother once said. Stifling a laugh, she told me my cabin was “rather like the Unabomber’s.” We’d all just seen that shack of his in the news, how they’d carted it off to a warehouse as evidence. These kinds of comments stay with you. But on this cold night, sweater up to my ears, boards creaking like from some sinister dream, I do feel just a hair like the Unabomber. UNA without the BOMBER, though. I’m a peacenik, an artist, no manifesto under the eco-friendly wool mattress. I’m railing, albeit quietly, at my mother now. You spend your life trying to explain yourself to these people, and then they – go.
How many candles can one person burn in a lifetime? It’s why, despite everything, she’s sent these on to me. I flick the lighter and hold it steady to the wick. “Candle number one,” I say. The flame catches quickly.
Art
London-based artist Tash Kahn has exhibited both nationally and internationally. Her practice is multi-faceted and she uses painting, Polaroids and sculpture to document the history of everyday life. In 2014, Kahn co-founded the visual-arts project DOLPH, helping facilitate 22 exhibitions, as well as partnering with primary schools, The Royal College of Art, and numerous artists across the world. She also works as a freelance editor.
Writing
Cathy Rose is a San Francisco, CA writer whose short stories have appeared the literary magazines, Greensboro Review, Fifth Wednesday Journal, Fourteen Hills, and elsewhere. Her work has been included in two anthologies, and has also been dramatized for the stage. She holds an MFA in creative writing from San Francisco State University and practices as a psychologist.