"Lights weren't enough to escape darkness"

     Lights weren't enough to escape darkness. We hid our beams of fire in broken jars, waiting for the right time to finish the cracks in their surfaces. Peaking glimmers of hopefulness pierced a night sky that was blank, save for the lone stars fading as morning drew near. This lofty game of hide and seek we played with ourselves only took us further from the light we so desperately hid. In trying to push back the darkness, we welcomed it even closer.

     This is not to say that we weren't tempting fate in bringing the dark to us. Far from it; we knew the risks we faced. There were no dangers unknown to we fateful two who stared at the riverbank in the blinding darkness. We stood frigid in our shoes, cracked jars so close to our hearts we could feel the fire coming from the wick and wax it held inside. It was quite a contrast, the flame near our chest compared to the frigid, peeling red bridge our feet had planted themselves on since early dusk. We never looked at each other, her and I, as we stared off across the blackened sky dotted with white specks. Not a word was said to one another. Our jars were too fragile for small talk.

     Time passed, and I could feel my flame starting to grow colder in the tiny jar. I turned ever so slightly to catch a brief glimpse at her own jar, still burning as bright as I remembered it. Why? What did her jar have that my own didn't? She didn't look much different than me, didn't act strangely compared to my own personality. Yet her jar was warm. I could tell just by looking at it. Her jar had something coming soon, something that I wasn't sure I had in return.

     Dawn was beginning to appear now. In my peripheral, I saw her smiling, her jar reflecting her face. I turned to face her just as my own jar sputtered to stay alive with the warmth of the dying embers inside of it. She opened her mouth, gasped in air, and paused. She seemed timid and shy, yet curious and pondering. What was she thinking?

     She opened her mouth again, and I knew. The words rushed out, and with each syllable the jar grew even brighter than the pink morning sun. She didn't seem afraid or anxious at what she was telling me. I was a complete stranger just mere hours before, and yet she spoke to me as if she had known me since we were six. She was alive, and, I assumed, she had never felt so alive before. She kept talking at such an excited pace about her hopes and skills and future plans. I doubt she even noticed the jar finish breaking in an unassuming crack. Her hands naturally grabbed for the candle inside as if it had always been in her hands, or within reach. She stopped talking, faced me, and embraced me. We hugged for what felt like minutes, but what must have been seconds. Finally, she released me, and, candle in hand, left the red bridge to continue on down the road.

     I turned my gaze back to my own jar. Funny, I hadn't noticed that particular crack in it before. I smiled. She had something now, some optimism or warmth that had only been undercover before. That knowledge was out there now, and she had loved every second of the experience. I stared deep into my own jar, wondering if I would ever have the same chance as she had. I could barely feel the rising heat between my two hands. Lights weren't enough to escape the darkness, but the darkness sure couldn't put out our lights. I smiled out over the bay beneath the red bridge before I turned to watch another one like her approach me, flawless jar in hand.

     

Photo Credit: W. Eugene Smith, Monongahela River from Mount Washington, 1955-1957

6-Word Story Credit: @KiriMcCoy