Lights

The pretty etched plastic lamps have the plugs on the wrong side.  I sit them in the window, not on a counter.  The cords intrude on my view and I can't turn them around.

*****

Our torchiers are from the last century.  They've always been temperamental, refusing to turn on or off, flickering for no reason at all.  But they are beautiful and when they work their light is exactly what and where we want it to be.  So we unplug it because it won't turnoff otherwise, and gently tap it because turning the on off switch makes it tremble.

*****

The old fashioned bubbler lights I bought for TBG's Xmas this year were lovingly packed away in the original, well-engineered box by Queen T.  She was meticulous, gently winding the wires, careful not to bend the cardboard inserts.  I watched, imagining HoneyBunny in my place, watching her doing the same thing, twenty, thirty, forty years from now.

***** 

Big Cuter found an attractive, rechargeable, well priced, light weight reading lamp on Wayfair.  It doesn't work at the bedside; its arm is not long enough to bend wide enough to reach my book, even if I scooch all the way over to the very edge of the bed.  On the couch, though, it sits primly on the arm rest, casting a bright light on the book in my lap, defeating the designers who neglected to put an electric outlet on the middle of the floor.

*****

I was up before the sun and the bedroom window was full of the moon and a bright but not blinding light that felt like a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders.  I stood there, in the middle of the room, watching and feeling the rotation in the celestial glow.  Overwrought?  Absolutely.  But in that moment I was one with the goddess.