The Candle(Georgianna) "The Candle", by Georgianna, Age 17
Copyright © 2001
Posted by Alesha, age 12, of the UK


As I settled into my place on the porch one late evening with the intention of drinking a soothing mug of frothy cocoa, a flickering light from the window next door caught my eye. My thoughts drifted to my hermit-like neighbor, Terri, who at one time had been a graceful, vivacious, and generally amiable young woman. Unfortunately, God had other plans for her that would ultimately change my life forever.

Her fire red hair had always been an origin of conversation, and her wide chocolate almond eyes an avid source of admiration. As a child, she won a statewide baby pageant. It was not until she entered elementary school that her disorder emerged. At first, her involuntary twitching seemed like a fetish, but over time doctors concluded that her problem was more serious. "Growing like a weed," she reached five foot six by the beginning of her teens. She had always been mentally slow, which, coupled with her other difficulties, hindered her from pursuing any education beyond fifth grade, and also separated her from her peers and many of the townspeople.

Common knowledge had it that God had shown His displeasure with her by marking her with these aliments. To demonstrate loyalty to the Creator, others ostracized her. I too believed in this popular myth, until a sweet old neighborhood cat wandered into her yard, and instead of eating it (which as the local children gossiped was her custom with stray animals), she proceeded to tenderly feed it and display affection upon its wretched soul. Yet, others did not see this episode, nor would it have been kindly received. Often it is more comfortable to nurture the pernicious form of a lie than to face the humbling eyes of the truth. Therefore, at her brother’s urging, she attempted to redeem her family’s reputation by teaching herself to dance.

Terri practiced her version of a classical dance while humming her rendition of a Brahm's concerto. With a hand-me-down sky blue tutu, a pair of faded pink ballet slippers, a sequin wand that glittered in the afternoon sun, and a plastic tiara, others remarked that she resembled a rag-tag clown recently departed from a second-hand store. While the rest of the neighborhood scoffed, I watched with wide-eyed wonder, and instead of seeing a woman flap her snow-white arms wildly in the air and haphazardly twirl about, I saw a glowing ballerina. To my eyes, the yellow weed-infested yard transformed into a mahogany stage ­- the sun metamorphosed into the precise and brilliant lights of a theater - Terri’s grass-stained tutu a delicate billow of thin lace - her shoes doeskin heels intended only for the most skillful dancer - her tiara a spun glass crown bestowing glory and honor on its wearer - her wand a gem-studded scepter which dealt grace and wisdom - and her amateur humming the beating heart of a voluminous orchestra. The fact that her hair was dirty and unkempt and her fingernails encrusted with mud never registered with me. I caught a glimpse of her spirit, which seemed invisible to the rest of the world.

Each night, I scrambled to my window and watched her amble down her dusty walkway, stand in the middle of her yard and pause. Then suddenly and with such force, she leapt, soared, dived, and flew through her routine. Abruptly, as the record in her mind died, her erect figure collapsed into the grass like a handful of limp towels. Unheard, I clapped and cheered her from my upstairs window. Her hidden agility encouraged me to enter the nationally acclaimed Nevada Ballet Theatre in the hope of becoming a prima ballerina. I also included several "classical" movements of hers in a ballet I recently co-wrote.

Returning from a trip one weekend, I happened to hear that Terri’s only living relative - her brother George, had recently been killed in an automobile accident. He had been Terri’s only link to the outside world and, in many cases, her protection from it. From a distance, I began to watch her crumple and fade away. Haggard and disheveled, Terri seldom surfaced. Her youthfully limber form slowly withered to become hard and unyielding. Dark blue circles developed around her once lively eyes. She must have stopped eating, because I noticed her formerly delicate hands shrivel into bony masses.

Like a dandelion after the bloom when its once radiant puffs leave the flower an unrecognizable mass of its former glory, so did Terri’s spirit blow away. Instead of dancing every night, she hid in dark corners and never strayed far from the house. She evanesced like a restless soul - uncomfortable in this world, but powerless to leave it. Although my heart longed to comfort her, never did I venture into her yard. The stares and smirks of others kept me from trying to fill the hole in my inspiration’s life.

I longed to speak with her, to give her the one gift the human race had never bestowed upon her - ­­a friend. On this night, I watched her shuffle through her gloomy house with a lone candle. The light stopped at the window and began to flicker. It seemed to lose its strength and fade ever so slowly. My heart pounded wildly, as the magnitude that Terri's loss would cause dawned on me. The thought that she would die without realizing that she had left fingerprints in my life weighed heavy on my soul. With renewed purpose, I raced across the yard as the candle fluttered and went out.

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