Grace by Candlelight
The white vigil candle in her grubby hand mirrors the shape of the syringe in her pocket. The fluted drip protector, the twin of the flange on the syringe’s barrel; the wick, the cousin of the needle. Yet t he transparency of the plastic is a lie. A lie, about the powers that lie within. The choir s ings . Silent night, holy night. All is calm, all is bright. T he candle refused to light no matter how many times the usher at the door, the one with the salesman’s smile and undertaker’s suit, held it to the flame while beckon ing her in side with promises of whatever ushers promise. Round yon virgin Mother and Child. Holy infant so tender and mild. From the last pew in back, she observes the congregants, arms slung around shoulders of their too perfect children. As if a beacon, she senses her threadbare coat glow scarlet against their Sunday best and Christmas sweaters. Maybe father had been right, that religion is just another the opiate to which she’d added “of the masse