The Light Was On

My mother wrote a neighbor's number on the fridge.

She said they knew. She said be back by nine.

I was thirteen. I said okay, no problem.

I locked the deadbolt after. Said I'm fine.

The house ran different with just me inside—

something in the walls, the refrigerator.

I left the kitchen light on and the TV

and fell asleep an hour or two later.

My friend said her daughter texted eight times—

updates, check-ins, every hour, she said.

I laughed. I said that sounds like her. That's good.

Then drove the last stretch home inside my head.

The porch light was still on when the bus came.

Yellow against the gray at the driveway's end.

I saw it from the window, pulling away.

Nobody left it on. They just forgot.