The candle maker wept head in hands.
“I’m but a simple waxsmith, an heir of skills molded far before me.”
The shop empty of patrons, dusty shelves with the remnants of molds, bulk wax blocks, rolls of string.
“I’ve but unrattled coin to my name. Nothing, nothing that will suffice my aching belly past the morrow.”
The rented shop was to be closed.
“Such a thing as I’ve never seen. Light from wire and glass. I thought it to be witchery, but no it’s real. Woe is me for I will starve! I’ve no other skill, to old to hang on a coat tail.
Looking up as passers by had no more interest in wax.”
“The winter of 66. Oh that was a good year. 40 racks a day. Enough coin for a whole roast by end of week, with pickled beets and ale. Such was the best. Now I stare at the flicker of my life, wavering in the endless draft of time.”
Staring at sole large writing candle that flickered on the desk. It burnt slow. A little puddle would form. Watching intently with sob sore eyes, it would pool up till almost round then fall to a side like a darting little snail till stopped and cooled.
“Solitude in wax from magic wire lights. I suppose this is the fate that falls on all the trades.”
Hours of silence passed. The candle flickered out as the door was opened as the candle maker left.
-M