When my mother decided that an evening with friends warranted candle light, she would spend a good part of the afternoon readying the dining room table. She would carefully unfold the white linen table cloth, giving it a shake as it emerged from it's place in the sideboard and then, as she held onto one end, she would let it fly out in a great white billow, guiding it gently until it landed in just the right place on the table. She would walk the perimeter of the table, running her hands over the cloth smoothing out wrinkles. Her china was laid with great care, as was her silver, polished and gleaming against the purity of linen. The last pieces brought out were the crystal candlesticks. Sparkling cut glass that reflected the light in dancing rainbows.
It was my father who lit the candles as guests arrived. The soft glow spread out, weaving it's way through greetings and laughter.
A few years ago, my mother gave her candlesticks. And now, they welcome my guests and family, reflecting light and history, bathed in a golden light.