Peace Candle

It is Advent. And a woman is talking about the peace candle. Lighting it. The plum taper is a rich vision of expectation. Everything feels cozy and right.

I'm holding a small cup of water in my left hand. My littlest is on my lap. Her amber curls are brushing against my chin. I can smell the warm, earthy fragrance of her skin. Everything feels cozy and right.

And now my littlest is flipping her hair or stretching with a quick gesture. I don't know what she's doing. What is she doing?! She hits the cup. Flips it. The water is all over me now. Cold, going through my dressy black pants. Water dripping down my arms, threatening towards my elbows. I'm glaring at my littlest. Colder than the cup of water, spilled.

The glare does its work. She slips off my lap, retreats into my spouse's arms.

Now the woman has finished talking about the peace candle. She's praying. Giving us a moment for confession.

And this is my Advent. Nothing feels cozy, nothing feels right. I am not at peace. I am a woman who glares at her child while the peace candle flickers, burns. And this is my Advent.