The Dim Tool

The drawer was dark

and I reached in blind,

fingers finding the cold metal tube

of the flashlight I've been meaning

to replace the batteries in

for six months.

I pressed the button.

An orange glow spread across my palm,

weak enough that I could see through it,

see the outline of my own hand

like it was dissolving.

That's all the light I got.

Enough to see that there wasn't enough light,

enough to know I'd made a choice

months ago to leave it broken,

to just keep using it like this,

half-working,

half-lit,

half-alive.

I could fix it in thirty seconds.

Go to the kitchen, find a new battery,

pop the cap off, swap them out.

But instead I'm standing in the dark

with my dim flashlight

that barely illuminates

the thing right in front of me,

let alone anything beyond it.

This is how I solve problems now.

I work around them.

I adjust to the broken version

and call it good enough

until it isn't,

until I need more light than I can make

and I'm still holding the same weak tool,

still pointing it at the dark

and hoping it's enough.

The battery dies completely

before I finish the thought.