Christmas' Last Candle

When I heard the voices – laughter, excited chatters – from the bend of the stairs, I knew that hope was still alive. The last 30 flights of stairs were, after all, not wasted.


Being my first time carrying such a heavy load of newspapers up the stairs, partly because there was virtually no one left on the lower floors due to the holiday celebrations, my hands were aching terribly, breath loud and throat choking with sweat. Somehow, there was only one thing left at the back of my mind that kept me through those lonely and unforgiving flights of stairs.


Finally arriving at the door, I yanked the handle. Jingle jingle. The laughter died abruptly, some quiet hushes, footsteps, then the door opened. As usual and as ever, it was Uncle Mike at the door.


“Merry Christmas, Uncle Mike!” I forced a weary smile to hide my desperation and weariness.


“Will you please buy a copy?” Please?


…


Dark, still and quiet. At 5am in the streets of London, even a mouse’s breathing can be heard without trying too hard. I lit the last remaining candle and placed it behind our dark window. As children, back when mom was still alive, me and Sis would watch her light up a candle and place it behind the window when times were really bad. When we had no money to buy breakfast for the next morning, when dad was trying to get a new job, when the district officers were about to chase us out from our shed.


“The candle reminds us that hope is always alive,” she said while huddling us close under the only blanket left in the house, our eyes still glued to the flickering flame. And every time she said that, her eyes would glitter beautifully.


Many people said Sis had my mom’s beautiful eyes. Sparkling, magical eyes.


And those desolate nights when mom lit those candles, miracles happened. Miracles. A random stranger approaching us with a loaf of warm bread. An unexpected job vacancy in the nearby cement factory. A grace period of 1 year to vacate the area.


The night mom was dying, I ran looking for the candles. Placing the candle on the window, I was about to light it when mom stopped me.


“No,” she said, still wearing that lovely smile of hers. “Keep it for yourselves!” Those were her last few breaths. We got the neighbours to help us call the police and the ambulance to take her away, and the local parish was kind enough to conduct a proper funeral for her.


Many months later, while crossing the road, a reckless drunk driver sped, swerved and hit Sis right at the lower limbs. Crushed and left paralyzed waist down. At the hospital, the NHS were pushing for us to pay up, or else Sis would not receive further treatment. In tears, I ran home and lit up another candle. Not only that, in front of the candle, I kneeled and prayed the only prayer I remember.


“Jesus, give us not what we ask for, but grant us what we truly need.” Sobbing, I added, “Please help Sis. Please.”


Satisfied with the candle now flickering dimly, I walked out of the door, burying my hands beneath the torn jacket I picked up from a recycling centre. Sis was quietly working on her handmade flowers, made from disposed cans. Shriveled legs flowing from a rusty old wheelchair, she looked up and our eyes met. Instinctively, I turned away from her gaze. Not for any other reason, but because her eyes reminded me too much of mom. I’m still afraid of those memories.


“Little boy,” she called out. Such sadness in her tone! How I hated it when Sis spoke with so much sorrow and pain. “Do bring something back for dad.”


Through the glass stained with dirt and time, the sight of dad lying under the thickest available cloth, on the floor, coughing slowly and softly, I walked out into the damp streets of London to find the kind uncle from the bookstore with the bronze horse.


That sentimental bronze horse. My first lollipop, broken and in half, but nevertheless a lollipop still. My first horse ride. With Sis while she still could walk perfectly. How could I forget those beautiful moments? Tearing my eyes away from that bronze horse, squeezing out the memories from my brain, I hugged the stack of newspaper and headed slowly to the apartments.


…


“Kid,” Uncle Mike said regretfully. “We already bought the papers this morning. Besides, it’s Christmas Eve, you shouldn’t be delivering papers…”


Oh no... I wailed silently. Speak of a nightmare come true.


And earlier while walking out from uncle’s bookstore with the stack of papers, I calculated that if I could sell a dozen copies, I could buy dad an egg. Or if I could sell all the papers, maybe I could get a can of his favourite hickory ham. But now, there really isn’t anything left for dad, is there?


Turning around, the tears began to swell.


God, why?


Little candle, where’s the hope that I need?


“But wait!” came the voice from behind. Aunty Mag’s voice. Always warm, always kind, always full of love. “We’ll be having visitors later, maybe we could do with a few more copies of papers,” and turning to Uncle Mike, “What do you think?”


Uncle Mike raised his eyebrows while Aunty Mag pulled him over and whispered something into his ears. Quickly I wiped my tears. Whatever it was, it must have been good as a smile slowly carved at the edges of his lips. Walking back to me, he asked, “How many copies do you have there, kid?”


50, I replied. Just 12, and I can get dad his favourite hickory ham. He has always wanted hickory ham. That would be the best present I could give to him, ever, in his entire life. Is 12 too many Uncle Mike?


Roaring in laughter, “I’ll take all!”


His reply certainly stunned me. That was by far the single largest transaction of newspaper ever made in my 4 years as a paper boy. Still gripping the stack of papers, it took a while before reality sank in. Before I knew it, Aunty Mag was clearing a corner of the hall for me to put down the newspapers.


Still left in a daze at the overwhelming purchase of newspapers, Uncle Mike grabbed my small hands and slapped a 100 pound bill into my hands.


“But I have no change!” I exclaimed meekly.


“You don’t?” He looked surprised, camouflaged beneath a cheeky smile. Bending down into my ears, he whispered, “Then keep it!”


Looking at the bill in my hands, it was as if as I had struck a jackpot. Overwhelmed for the second time, my heart was now so full of happiness and hope. Not only could I buy dad a hickory ham, I could even buy a whole turkey! A comfortable bed, a warm blanket for dad…


We could get more candles…


“Thank you Uncle Mike!” was all I could say. “Thank you so much!”


The 30 flight of stairs, this time, was so light and so easy. This time I didn’t even have to run back to the bookstore. Uncle Henry promised me that since it was Christmas Eve, I’d get to take back every single penny from the papers.


The market!


People were already rushing back home. The evening sun was setting. Pace quickening, bigger steps, deep down I was praying that the market would still have some cans of hickory ham left. Running along the streets, a quick glance into the windows of the brightly lit houses and there was Mother placing a perfectly roasted turkey on the table under the watchful eyes of Dad and little children. If only Christmas would be something like that.


My steps died in bitterness and agony. The market was already closing. An old man was locking up the gates. After all that had happened in the last few hours, after all the running and hope, how could this happen?


I slowly walked up to the uncle and tugged at his coat. “Uncle, could you please sell me a can of hickory ham?” His face was wrinkled with sorry, and his gentle eyes couldn’t cover the fact that there simply wasn’t any hickory ham left. He pulled out a small can of baked beans from his pocket and handed it to me. Refusing the 100 pound bill from me, he smiled and walked away, leaving me stoned outside the locked gates of the London market.


For the second time, the journey was long and draggy. How could I face a dying man, with just a can of baked beans? What good was the 100 pound now? There were simply no more tears left for a 10 year old boy anymore. Simply none at all. Just a broken heart, a contrite spirit, a defeated soul. So much for kindness, so much for hope, and it all ends with that painful blow of reality. The markets simply wouldn’t wait for you. The cans of hickory ham just wouldn’t stay on top of the shelves for you.


London’s Christmas, isn’t really for the poor and needy.


Just another turn, and I would be back at our shed. Straightening my shirt, forcing a convincingly happy smile again, I was about to walk again when a very faint melody caught my ears.


Amazing grace! How sweet the sound!
That saved a wretch like me!


When was the last time I heard an angel singing?


I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see!


The voices grew stronger and stronger. Melodious! Sweet choruses! Angelic and heavenly! Dad, oh dad, if only you could hear these voices...


And again the pain struck my heart. Deep and hurting.


“Where is this amazing grace that I need now?” Where is the amazing grace that Dad needs?


Bravely, I picked up from where I stopped and walked home. The corner of the alley was bright and glowing. From afar it looked like our shed was on fire. Strange as it may be, as we had no more candles or sticks left for a fire, our shed was bright again. God knows when was the last time our shed saw light as bright as that.


And the voices, those angelic and beautiful voices, grew stronger at every step I take towards my shed.


Slowly, I realized, there were carolers in our shed. Singing. They must be holding candles.


Uncle Henry was leaning by the wall outside my shed, hands tuck in his pocket. “Hey kid,” he said in his deep husky tone. “Look who’s here.”


I peered inside and saw Uncle Mike and Aunty Mag. Uncle Mike had a roasted turkey in his hands. The same one I saw inside the houses along the streets I was running back from earlier the evening. And Aunty Mag was opening a huge can of hickory ham. There were some other adults that I couldn’t recognize who were fussing over dad. Some gently got him to sit up straight, some wrapped him with warm wool, one even took a bucket of water and washed his hands.


“Hurry!” Uncle Henry said while gently pushing me at the shoulder. “You wouldn’t want to miss the big feast.”


For a while now, with the baked beans in one hand and the 100 pound bill still crumpled in the other, I allowed the unfolding events to dazzle my eyes. How did they know? Was it Uncle Henry? The answers didn't really matter then. There came a very grateful smile, widely curved across my face. The coldness of London’s winter simply couldn’t mask the warmth of the people inside. People I never expected to extend a hand of kindness; people you never thought would come down to the slums to celebrate Christmas with you.


Uncle Mike came out and chattered with Uncle Henry. They would take Dad to the hospital later for treatment. Before my eyes blurred from tears again, before walking up to Uncle Mike and burying myself in his shoulders, I stole a quick glance at the candle I lit this morning. It had died long ago. No longer was it flickering or shining. All that’s left were the now solid tears with the stump right in the middle.


I knew then, that we wouldn’t need candles anymore, not because the shed was now bright, but because from that day onwards, we would no longer need candles to remind us that hope, is always alive.