A Poem: The Lightbulb

I remember the night,

the lightbulb in your room

died.

I don’t remember events,

only you.

You were in my arms.

Furtively, I looked up,

was that a hiss?

Considered replacing it.

Considered asking

someone else

to replace it.

Fortunately, for us, there were

two bulbs

in the ceiling light.

Before bed, each night,

while you sat tethered to

a tube feed

downstairs,

on your play mat,

I’d flip on the light.

I’d tidy up your crib,

fold your blankets,

rearrange stuffed animals.

I’d drape several blankets

over the rails, so you wouldn’t

wake up fearing

shadowy spaces.

I’d do this every night,

in half-light.

Half-light became my life.

For eight months, I thought,

“I’ll change that bulb,” but then,

you died.

The light became synonymous

with my life.

Half of me dead,

the other half alive.

Barely alive.

Ready to burn out,

at any time.

Then,

I gave birth to your baby

brother.

A new life.

It occurred to me,

I didn’t want him to begin his life

in half-light.

I thought about changing the bulb,

that was once in your

room, but now belongs to

him.

A stranger to you, sleeping in your

crib.

Did you two meet, in the in-between?

The between time, after you died,

before he took his first gulp of air.

Every night, I flip the switch of the light

that once belonged to you.

Each time I do, I think about

changing it.

I don’t.

It’s the only constant.

The bridge that closes the gap

between you and your brother.

From your life to his.

From your room to his.

From your crib to his.

It makes time

not so linear,

for a minute we all exist,

together,

when I flip the switch

and on goes

only half of the light.