In Memory of a Lamp
I’m not really sure why I chose the bed in the corner of our two bedroom apartment in Rome. It probably has something to do with the that fact beside my bed was the only lamp in the room. I hate overhead lighting. And even if my room mates weren’t already asleep, I’d prefer the tiny lamp with the crooked shade.
I suppose at this point I could write a smug and contrived analogy about how I “saw the light” in Italy, and my life was illuminated. But that was far from the truth- I hated that lamp. No matter what I tried the shade wouldn’t stay upright; forcing it didn’t help- the light would go out because of a short in the wire. The thing was probably a death trap, but I risked it anyways. I personified my lamp and characterized it as spunky since it would only work when the bulb hung at a 45 degree angle. Every time I looked at that wonky lamp, I cocked my head to the side and squinted one eye like it was asking me a stupid question. It drove me crazy but I dealt with it, and I will never forget it either. That wonky lamp had more personality than half the people I know.
I spent a lot of time under that lamp in Rome. During the day my room mate Emily and I explored the city street by street and drew from paintings in dimly lit churches. But in the heat of the afternoon, when everything closed and the Romans disappeared I stretched out on my low twin bed and listened to the sounds outside our window. I often tired of watching the curtains flow in the breeze and let my eyes drift up toward that strange lamp as I wandered closer to sleep. The lamp’s disheveled frame was familiar to me. It was my little corner of the world, and I loved that it wasn’t perfect. Every night I fell asleep and I felt better because of that.
I suppose at this point I could write a smug and contrived analogy about how I “saw the light” in Italy, and my life was illuminated. But that was far from the truth- I hated that lamp. No matter what I tried the shade wouldn’t stay upright; forcing it didn’t help- the light would go out because of a short in the wire. The thing was probably a death trap, but I risked it anyways. I personified my lamp and characterized it as spunky since it would only work when the bulb hung at a 45 degree angle. Every time I looked at that wonky lamp, I cocked my head to the side and squinted one eye like it was asking me a stupid question. It drove me crazy but I dealt with it, and I will never forget it either. That wonky lamp had more personality than half the people I know.
I spent a lot of time under that lamp in Rome. During the day my room mate Emily and I explored the city street by street and drew from paintings in dimly lit churches. But in the heat of the afternoon, when everything closed and the Romans disappeared I stretched out on my low twin bed and listened to the sounds outside our window. I often tired of watching the curtains flow in the breeze and let my eyes drift up toward that strange lamp as I wandered closer to sleep. The lamp’s disheveled frame was familiar to me. It was my little corner of the world, and I loved that it wasn’t perfect. Every night I fell asleep and I felt better because of that.
