Stories of the Cellar Door

My father clutched his chest, as I blew to make my sixteenth wish. The next sun rose before my birthday was remembered – wishes are for children. Marked by my mother with a six-wick orange candle and an oval locket. A picture of my father nestled in the silver. “Allow yourself tonight to grieve,” she said, “but you’re a grown-up now. One night will be enough.” Worn every day, an ornament, like the smile on my face, I kissed it on waking and as the sun set. The candle had real slices of orange, and delicate blossom enrobed in its sweet-scented wax. I saved it for twelve years. Until the night I got the call. A sorrowful nurse shook her head as she met me. Tears fell, more saline along the clinical corridors. I returned home and lit all six wicks. Placing mother’s candle by my bed, I rocked myself from side to tearful side. I whispered in the flickering shadows: “Allow yourself tonight to grieve, but you’re a grown up now. One night will be enough.” The curtains caught as I dri

I was glad of the bells that rang out for Grandpa, hours before they rang in midnight mass. The heavy metal tones drowned out memories of his shrill police whistle and his clinking, jailor’s keys. Now set firmly in his coffin, their sounds still woke me in a cold sweat, night after chilling night, since he died. What if I became like him? I trudged through slushy streets towards the empty, unheated church. My father had over-tipped the pall bearers. Right to the last, people had to be bribed to be nice to the remorseless old man. My black-clad mother gave a brief eulogy. Then a priest led us in a short prayer of forgiveness, before the coffin was lowered into frozen ground. We left, tearless, to walk home. The seasons have turned full circle. The leaves are gone, the slushy snow is back. This year, with a heart full of hope and a stomach full of chocolate, I wrap gifts in coloured paper for the very first time. Banned under his patriarchal reign, my family never had any kind of p