You Forgot Your Lamp

By Nora Cahill 

I spend a lot of my time thinking about the lamp on the right side of my mom’s bed. It sits miles away, on the opposite side of her light, where it remains untouched and ignored. I try to picture it, but only the vaguest details come to mind. The lamp suffocates in layers of dust that drain its once bright glow; a soulless beige remains. It is the type of beige that’s a presence you always resent, even when you see it in cheap hotel rooms. Whenever I see it now, it’s always off. The lamp might still work, but I wouldn’t know. None of us would. I’m not sure if I’ve ever seen it turned on. If we turned it on now, I am sure the dust would catch fire and take us all down with it. It’s best to leave it there in its corner. 

He would know, though. He’d be able to find the switch and change the bulb. First, he’d have to clear off the dust, of course. After that, getting the lamp in working order would be a simple task. I could do it myself, but I won’t. It’s his lamp, he should deal with it. He should come back here and wipe off that dust. If he never intended to come back to deal with his lamp, he should have smashed it and thrown it in the trash on his way out. That way, it wouldn’t be taunting us all the time. It would have been the courteous thing to do. 

I feel the heat rise in my veins as I ruminate on these thoughts about him. I have visions of shouting at the lamp and tearing it apart piece by piece. First, I’d take off the shade and rip it to shreds with my bare hands. Oh, how my joints would ache. I’d smother the light bulb with my fist and build the pressure until I felt the glass cave in. The stinging in my hands would overwhelm my senses. I wouldn’t be able to notice the blood dripping down my wrists and onto the floor. I’d grab the remaining stand firmly with both hands, making sure that no more oxygen

could flow through its neck. I’d yank the lamp towards me with all my strength, forcing the plug out of the outlet. The plug would bring the outlet along with it, creating a massive hole in our wall. I’d fall down from the intense recoil and land on my head. The red would rush ‘round, seeping into the floorboards. I’d find it in me to stand up to complete the job. I would reclaim that dreadfully sturdy lamp. I’d bash the stand into the ground, over and over and over and over and over. 

I wouldn’t stop when the floor started to crack. I wouldn’t stop when I fell through the oak boards. I wouldn’t stop when my knees buckled. I wouldn’t stop when my arms screamed in agony. I wouldn’t stop when my vision began to narrow and darken. I wouldn’t even stop when my lungs were no longer filled with air. 

I would stop when my heart ceased to fuel my living. I would stop when the blood no longer lifted my muscles into position. I would stop when I ceased to have control over my vessel. I would be there motionless. Useless. Meaningless. I wouldn’t stop because I wanted to; I would stop because I couldn’t anymore. 

And so, the firm stone stand of the lamp would remain. Of course, some chips would be on its side, but it would remain a permanent fixture in our home’s foundation. I would decay and rot into nothingness, but the lamp would remain. They would fix the floorboards, and the lamp would sit there, buried. Years in the future, they would demolish our home to rebuild something of use to them. Maybe they would find the lamp, deep underneath the floorboards. They would pick it up and see all the dust and cracks. They would say, “This junk is useless. Throw it out.” They’d toss it unceremoniously into a garbage truck where it could finally be destroyed in a compactor. It’s too bad I wouldn’t be around to see it. Yet it wouldn’t matter, because the lamp would still exist, no matter how small its pieces became.

I sit here now, next to my mom, in the spot that used to be his. I turn to her and say, “Aren’t you sick of this dust? Can you pass me a tissue? I’m going to clean up the lamp.”