Vessels for Story

Vessels for Story

By: Martina Isaksen

Like oil lamps, flickering, full of the fuel of life, we burn against the dark devouring night. Each one of us, a separate universe: thousands of moments, accomplishments, memories, and adventures, barely kept together, bursting at the seams. The stories spill out of us, each one unique and each one creating rivulets of precious life fuel: ready to burn, ready to light up the dark.

A boy stands in the rain, looking through the shop window at the frozen face of the mannequin. He’s cold, and it’s getting dark outside. Briefly, he wonders if the mannequin is warm, if it’ll be worth it to walk into the cozy light of the shop and bask in the warmth. With a slight shake of his head, he decides against it, resolutely walking down the cobblestone street.

As he walks, an emptiness overtakes him, emptying his heart and leaving only loneliness. He shivers suddenly and looks up. Once again, he is entranced by a shop’s light. This time it’s a bakery and the boy gingerly wonders if the inside of the shop smells as heavenly as he imagines.

The light from the bakery which had been slipping into the street through the open door suddenly is blocked by the silhouette of a woman. The light filters through a halo of curly hair, creating beautiful patterns against the cobbled street.

“Can I help you?” She looks at him with motherly affection, a soft smile on her face.

“Not really, I was just going” The boy shrugs under his thin shirt, attempting to look brave.

“Why don’t you sit here and wait out the rain?”

“Really, I was just going…” The boy trails off as he smells the warm scents of the bakery.

The woman laughs good-naturedly, and leads him inside. Her hair wafts gently as she walks, like the flame of a candle attempting to stay alight.

The warmth envelops the boy, but that empty feeling prevails. There is a hole in his chest, empty and aching.

“Sit,” She tells him, gesturing towards a small table by the window.

He does as he’s told, and waits for her to return, distracting his wandering mind by staring out the window to the cold, empty night outside.

“Here you go” She slides some food onto the table, all the while looking at him through unsettlingly deep eyes that seem to be able to see the very essence of his being. “Now,” She peers at him intently, “Tell me, what were you doing in the rain?”

The boy doesn’t want to speak. It feels like there isn’t enough left in him to let out, to tell. The cold persists inside his bones, though his clothes are starting to dry. To avoid speaking, he takes a bite of the freshly made broth he was offered. And suddenly, he feels like he’s a little less empty, there is a little more of him to tell.

“Where to begin?” Hesitating a little, he begins to speak.

It’s not much, not particularly exciting. It's just plain old life churning endlessly in the wheel of time. But as he speaks, the cadences of his voice rising and falling with emotion, the woman’s knowing eyes looking deep into his soul, the warm broth filling him, plain old life becomes the oil that sustains the flame. He speaks, he smiles, and he listens. She has things to say too. Her vessel of life, not yet full, intermingles the precious fuel of her life with his. Songs, memories, flickering gently, imitating her flaming hair. Slowly, very slowly, the cold seeps out of his bones. His clothes are dry, and though his chest still isn’t full, it’s no longer empty. The more he talks, the more he tells, the more he listens, the gaping hole that wounded him so deeply seems to shrink. Slowly.

Perhaps his light might not last forever.

Nothing really does.

But the flickering flame will prevail one more night.