Icons, Part Two.

Evenly spaced out on top of a ceramic tiled-window sill in my bathroom, four candles, scentless, but brightly colored, are encased in tall glass containers with various patron saints printed onto their paper wrappers. There is Mary, well, one of the Marys, and also a Peter. One of the icons actually resembles an angel, but I do not read the description of the artfully depicted, so I am not too sure whether or not the entity is what it appears to be. I do know that a large number of people recognize these magisterial symbols as illustrating a big meaning of some sort.

They are there, perhaps even for me, as I use the toilet, shower, and shave. Sometimes, I even light them, although I am not sure for what reason, as they do not effuse the smells of warm sugar, Bergamot orange, and blackberry, like the other candles in my living room, unsaintly, or at least lacking in magisterial presentation, do when I light their wicks. I suppose I might light the heads of these solemn faces as I necessitate a particular ambiance. At night when I have friends over to unwind and drink, I certainly have the saints brightly keeping vigil over my bathroom. I hope, like my friends and I, that these saints are able to revel when I am away.

At night I sleep on my twin bed, pushed up against the wall that my bedroom shares with my bathroom. While I sleep, I lay with my head just a wall away from my bathtub. For the first hour of my sleep, I am more just trying to ignore the erratic thumping and scurrying away of my two cats. Whenever I have managed to fall asleep, my cats will notice they are no longer being paid any attention and will jump onto my body. Claire will bury her face into mine until I open my eyes. Then, she just keeps staring, or, she will inch back up to my face and lick my nostrils. Justine wills start his therapy session of stretching out his paws and clawing them into my blanket (and my legs), as he sucks at the fabric, missing a nipple from which he was weaned too early in his life. Momentarily, they manage to rest and cause minimal noise on my bed. Some nights they might even fall asleep for a couple of hours before jumping back into their nightly groove, their paws resounding off the hardwood floors. We all love each other, I am sure--they are given food and warmth and I am given the pleasure of their company and observing the lively way in which they interact with each other, but there is also resent in the chords. Resent in the cats for the eternal imprisonment and in me for their stench and noise.

I hear a shattering noise from the bathroom, but I keep my eyes closed. I hate knowing what time I am waking up, disturbed in the middle of the night. Minutes later, another crashing sound. For whatever the ruckus, I am determined not to let my sleep suffer.

The next morning, glass. Bits of glass on the tile floor and large cuts of glass in my bathtub. All but one of the patron saint candles have been knocked down to the floor. Mary, one of the Marys is still on the window sill. Torn shreds of paper are hanging by their glue from the larger, more intact clumps of glass. Jesus Christ, I liked those candles! There are dirty paw prints on the brim of the tub and along the tile floor. In an ocean I cannot collect and certainly will not swallow, I leave the mess for another day.

Of course, I know I have to shower, sooner rather than later. I thank Mary and Jesus both that I am not a Catholic who might read too much into this iconic desecration. In preparation for my shower, I pick up the bigger pieces of glass with my hands and drop them in a four plastic grocery bag-layered sack. One of the candles has been cracked in two. I hold the wax up to my nose and then remember that the wax is scentless, so it is quickly discarded and not considered again. I wet several napkins under the bathroom faucet and sweep them all over the ceramic tub, picking up the smaller cuts of glass. At least the saintly candles are not too expensive. If I care enough, I can always drive back to Walmart and just buy three more. Hell, why not ten more? It is impossible to get all the glass out of the tub. I turn on the bathtub faucet to wash the rest of the glass down the drain, off to be dealt with elsewhere and then take off my clothes. My cats paw at the bathroom door, because they find all separation from me unbearable whenever I am home. I can take my shower now, but I will have to keep in mind that my feet enter the water now slightly imperiled.



"Hail Mary, full of grace, get down on your knees and pray. Jesus Christ, hanging on the cross, died for our sins, it's such a loss. Saint Christopher, find my way, I'll be coming home one day. Saint Sebastian, don't you cry, let those poison arrows fly. Saint Anthony, lost and found, Thomas Aquinas, stand your ground. All those saints and holy men, catch me before I sin again." --Madonna, 2012.