I have a lamp.
Of course, we have several lamps.
But this one, it's special,
and holds a tight place in my heart.
It sits now, in the basement,
on top of the filing cabinet that Tim acquired from an old job.
The lamp isn't plugged in.
It simply rests, bulb in hand,
waiting for us to turn it on,
to use it once again,
to see its light burn bright.
This lamp used to be on often,
every night in fact.
Because it was the lamp that we passed on from child to child.
It saw the twins when they were two days old:
itty-bitty identical cherubs
who barely weighed as much as a sack of flour each.
It welcomed the fiery redhead
and eased him through some rough patches
in the wee hours of stormy nights.
It said Hello, and, Aren't you a surprise?
to the little princess that took up the guest room,
but who, clearly, is no longer a guest
(and never was).
It is a lamp with Noah and his animals,
in an ark, on top of a swirl of blue water.
It has no place in my home now,
as the kids have moved on
to aqua blue and flower lamps, and sleek green modern lamps
that sit atop dressers adorned with Legos and ear buds and perfume.
I do not have a baby that needs it,
or a toddler that wants to sit and look at the animals.
Instead, we have a child who dresses it up with paper and pretends
that the lamp is her sister.
And another child who says, Didn't I have that lamp when I was little?
And two more who look at the lamp with dampness in their eyes,
saying, I love that lamp. That was a good lamp.
It is a good lamp.
And even if it stays on top of that cabinet in the basement,
It is clear that the lamp actually does have a place in our home.