Passing Of The Wick

After I lit the wick, the flame bounced around as if it were debating whether or not to go out. I glared at the wayward flame; it recovered quickly, obeyed and began to sway to its own rhythm within the lamp.

I closed the lamp feeling proud of myself, and wiped my hands on the apron of my dress. The apron was a recent addition to my wardrobe. If I came home with a soiled dress, Mother would forbid me from accompanying Father again. The thought of what that would do to our income made me cringe.

Across the street I watched Father as he threw his hand toward a street lamp. Nothing happened. He brought the bottle to his lips and drank deeply before throwing his hand again at the lamp. Still nothing. Father staggered back before trying his luck a third time. I joined him in making the motion, and the wick was caught.

“What are you looking at, girl?” he said the word girl like a slur. “We've got work to do.” He stumbled down the road; the next wick caught on the first try.

I shook my head as I walked down my side of the street. With the snap of my fingers, each wick I passed lit for me eagerly. I walked on without checking the flames’ obedience. I finished lighting my lamps, leaving my father behind.