My bedside table lamp died today. It's been with us for a while now. It's one of those things that my roommate had before I lived with him. It ended up in my room because it was difficult to knock over. As you know by now, I'm not the most graceful of flowers. Anything we can do to keep me from breaking things is usually done. This worked out pretty well. I had the lamp for quite a few years.
The lamp was plastic. Part of it was black and the other part was a very pretty sapphire blue. It was an office lamp, utilitarian in design, with little compartments on the base to hold pencils and rubber bands and such items. For the most part, these were just dust collectors. Occasionally the cats would puke on them. They were a bitch to clean.
I will miss my lamp. It has been with me through so much. In this last year, for instance, it has witnessed me almost dying from blood loss. It has witnessed my sleepless, terrified nights worrying about cancer. It witnessed me with stitches and staples and drainage tubes. It has been there as I began to recover. It's hard to lose this lamp because it's like losing a part of myself, and I think I've done enough of that lately.
My roommate moved one of the spare lamps into my room. It's pretty. I think it's one that I put together from bits and pieces of other lamp parts. I think I wired it. I can't quite remember. If I did, I hope it doesn't burn down the house. I like the light it puts out. It's soft and gentle. I've never been one to like harsh lighting. I welcome it into my room and my life and hope that it can witness better things than the last one did. Seriously, I'd really like that.
No comments:
Post a Comment