Because the main character of every story does not need to be a person, I will tell you about them. They are two, crafted at the turn of the 20th century by Anton Kartholl, my grandfather.
Two “candle trees,” twelve inches wide, sixteen inches tall, each with five branching arms that disseminate light in every direction. I have been their custodian for almost fifty years.
They are top heavy of course, and reside in a corrugated box in the trunk of my car. To accommodate them, I turn corners slowly, which gives them time to regain their equilibrium.
My house is too small for them – one maybe, but not two. I cannot bring myself to separate them however, after their being together one-hundred twenty years.
I can’t sell them or give them away either, because I wouldn’t know how they’d be treated. Actually, I’m honored to be their custodian.
I do have a large and relatively uncluttered yard. They might make a strange landscape display; however, brass is made of zinc and copper – it has no iron, so it doesn’t rust.
Candelabras have a long history of luminance. Also, their triangular base guards against tip-ability; characteristics that could work in a yard.
In order to bond more closely with them, I watched a rather long and involved video called “The Corpus Mold-Making Process of Brass.”
After the first sentence I was in the dark: “It is assumed you’ve already melted your brass before you are preparing to make it into something.”
My grandmother May cherished and protected the candelabras–she also loved Liberace. Together we watched all thirteen episodes of his show.
Then one evening she shared her dismay, that Liberace had overdone it with the candelabras. This occurred shortly after it became known, that the love of Liberace’s life was a man.
This information emitted light, much more intense than Gran was able to manage.
Spring, 2022
