Candelabra

 The brass object is surprisingly light. I say surprisingly because, when I was younger, this thing, this tree-like work of branches cupping lit and melting candles like fruits starry when they’re ripe, used to be so heavy in my then-tiny hands, so strange in its shape and carve that I couldn’t find the proper way to grasp it when I was tasked with carrying it to the dining room or the den when we had guests over and an adult was too busy setting up before or entertaining our visitors during. And, of course, I swelled with pride every time I delivered the heavy, bizarre object without dropping it once, not realizing then that it wasn’t going to break into a million yellowish brown pieces if I do.

Or, maybe, my sense of pride was in being a participant in this family tradition that spanned generations, the same amount of time that this elegant candelabra had existed in the Coeur des Leone family. Even preschool-aged me could sense the importance of setting the candles into the holders, sparking the wicks, and sitting down to after-dinner wine (or grape juice, in a plastic wine glass so I can practice being a respectable audience when I’m older) and cakes as our orator of the evening, usually the eldest member of our family, shared with us a tale or two.

The surface rubbed tarnished in my palms; it used to be so beautiful, gleaming in the gentle, dancing firelight as our storyteller shared with us “Oh, you would not believe what happened to me on the train a couple days ago!”, or “Okay, so, you all remember when I told you about a rumor that my crappy snob of a coworker, Kathy, was having an affair with our boss? Well, guess what...” and “Did you hear the good news about cousin Danny? His book was published! I got to read it, and, well… eh…”

And, because they remembered that these were stories that the kids like myself and my cousins would not understand, and, therefore, would not care about, the orator of the night would have us kids sit closer to them, refill our plasti-glasses, and regale us with something suitable to our tastes. I remember leaning in, taking tentative sips, captured by the candles’ flickering light in my grandmother’s dark eyes, or the glow made afresh in my uncle’s cheeks. Later those nights, the stories would revisit me in dreams, where I was the princess in the flowing tutu and white armor slashing my sword against the Giant Angry Tree Troll, or the shrunk-down scientist exploring the bowels of Forever Gassy Old Cat, always with a torch or a flying orb of light that I knew tied to the candelabra.

The stories that stuck to me most, though, longer than the stories full of fart jokes and subtle jabs at an unattractive and disagreeable family member, were the ones centered around this very treasure of brass. This was a story shared by my Grampy; while a lot of my cousins found it a chore to humor the old man with the same story over and over, I and possibly one other kid scrambled with delight to sit upon Grampy’s knee (and, as we got older and heavier, on an ottoman on either side of him so we could still lay our heads on his knees). Then, Grampy would share with us how our great-great-great-great grandfather, after his father died and his mother struggled terribly with feeding the children, sailed across the ocean to find more opportunities. His mother, before he left, begged him to take the family’s candelabra with him, more so that she wouldn’t be tempted to sell it for food than so that he’d have a memento of his family while he, then only fifteen, was so far away.

And while his spirits were low, due to being hungry, himself, and having to postpone bringing his mother and siblings over due to low funds, Grandpa Gerges would spare a couple pennies for a candle and some tea from a shop that was going to throw it out, and lift himself with tales he’d make up by the candlelight, in the same way his father, and his father’s father, would do for the family. It was during that time while, walking home from a long day’s work at the factory, he found a flier calling for stage play scripts for the downtown theater. And despite being tired all the time, and still having so little money, he bought a stack of paper and pen and set to work writing a play with one of the many stories he’d come up with at his lonely table, with only the candles and the candelabra as company.

His first submission wasn’t a raving success as he’d hoped; in fact, it took five, ten, twenty scripts before he even had a modicum of success, but the meager pay for the script was enough to rent a bigger flat and finally bring his mother and siblings to the American shores.

And, when Grampy wasn’t too tired from the previous stories, he’d even share the stories that Grandpa Gerges wrote during his struggles and loneliness –

“E-excuse me, ma’am –”

I blinked, my head snapping up.

“You’re kinda holding up the line...”

I glanced over my shoulder, to the queue of shuffling feet, shifting weight, and frowns over arms load of antiques and retro treasures. The childhood home, the sturdy seat of my Grampy’s knee, contrasted greatly with this shabby and depressing shop, with this fidgety, pimpled teen stuffing his hands in his apron’s pockets. My chest swelled and my free hand palmed at the tears brimming in my eyes before they could fall.

“Sorry about that. I guess I’m a little too attached to this thing.”

The teen cashier, with eyebrows knitting together with great sympathy, smiled. “It’s okay, ma’am, you don’t have to –”

“Trust me, kid, I do,” I said, taking another deep breath before handing the candelabra over. “Gotta make rent, somehow, y’know?” He’s a kid, so he doesn’t know, but I’m just convincing myself at this point.