When the Light Gave

I was on the kitchen chair when it happened,

the bulb warm in my hand, the filament

visible for a second, bright, then sudden—

the click that wasn't quite a sound, just meant

to end. My hand still held the shape of it,

the socket staring empty at the wall.

My palm still curved like I could fit

something back inside, but there was nothing at all.

The room didn't go dark all at once.

It just forgot to stay bright,

the way things do when they've had enough,

when they decide their time is done at night.

I stood there on the chair a moment longer,

my arm still raised, my fingers still

holding the memory of warmth and of

the brightness that had been, until

it wasn't. And I climbed down slowly,

went to the living room for the lamp.

But for that moment, standing so lowly

on the chair in the dark, the damp

and cold settling in, I didn't move.

I let the darkness happen slow.

I let myself just grieve

the loss of that small glow.