Each night when the household was deep in slumber they would slip away. Into the woods. Quietly. Brother and sister. A bucket in each hand. They had a job to do. One that had to be done. Before the pink light of dawn.
They would make their way to a clearing. Deep in the forest. Surrounded by giant oaks. The kind that gather light in their bark. Each crevice that runs the length of the tree a furrow. Glistening with freshly flowing moonbeams. Like a silver river in spate.
The siblings would make their way to the bottom of each oak. One by one. Turn the palms of their hands into cups and gather the light from the trees. Filling their buckets.
Their task complete. They would swiftly make their way back. So as to fill the darkness now strangulating their home, their land, their entire country with light.
A light in the distance.
Steady. Unwavering flame.
It’s footsteps in tune.
With the whispering snow.
I reached for my old lamp. Frosted over.
Cracked with the cold. Wiped it clean.
Striking a match. I coaxed the light out of it.
Then I hung it on the door.
Just in case you needed to find your way home.
Published with permission.
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