The Red Candle

It starts with a red candle.
The flame flickers and the shine
of the melting wax at the rim
turns into a scarf that wraps
and flies out behind me.
It is tugged and the candle turns
its profile now a face aflame.
I worry the scarf will burn.

The scarf has wrapped around
a man in a thick, fringed gray cape
with a wide-brimmed aged and wrinkled
hat pulled down over his face.
He pulls on the scarf as he hurries
toward me, grabs my camera,
and flings it to the street,
smashing it into specks.
He reaches past me and pinches
the wick, extinguishing the candle’s flame.

We are on a set. Fake eyelashes knock over
the scaffolding which topples into Christmas
trees. The family scurries onto the couches
for the formal photo. The red scarf, now tied in a bow, is tossed over the nearest tree. Everyone races into the rows of fake trees, but the gray man doubles back, shrinking to slide under the couches then growing to join the other elves on the hand-cranked, vertical sled with side wheels and gears.
Once they ride out, the door slams shut.

I have a chance to breathe and contemplate
the rush. How each action sped to the next,
and then it was over, like the lick of a candle’s flame catching the curtains, but nothing else.
A holiday gathering can exhaust
with lack of oxygen.

It ends with the elves seated on the lip
of the lit candle, warming their hands
by the flame which sheds a warm glow
on a cherub-faced elf with blond curls
who beckons me to join them.
I hesitate, not wanting to burn.