The Glow of the Lamp
This lamp came to me from my Aunt Sheila, who said it “didn’t match her new divorce energy.” I wasn’t quite sure what that meant, but I was too polite to ask—or turn down a free lamp—so I nodded and took it home like she’d just handed me something rare and valuable.
For a while, it didn’t have a home. It sat on the bookshelf, quietly waiting next to a stack of books I promised myself I’d read someday. Then, one night during a blackout, I plugged it into the only working outlet in my apartment. And just like that, it glowed—soft and steady, like it had been waiting for its moment all along. Suddenly, the whole room felt warmer, cozier. Like someone who owns a white antique lamp on purpose lived there.
Since then, it’s found its spot in the corner of my bedroom—not just because it’s useful, but because it has presence. Quiet style. It doesn’t demand attention, but it always makes the room feel a little more pulled together, a little more lived-in, a little more mine.
Now, it’s ready to find a new home—maybe yours.
