It stands only nine inches tall,
delicate and quietly luminous—
a flower of fire held in iron and grace,
casting a soft yellow glow
just bright enough to walk by,
not quite enough to read by—
which feels right somehow.
My mother gave me this lamp.
A gift simple in form,
profound in meaning.
We hadn’t spoken for over a decade.
My addiction was a wall.
Her boundaries were her strength.
I ran from anyone who might offer healing—
because the wounded part of me
was afraid of light.
But time, like flame, softens.
Since late 2024, our voices found each other again.
Not perfectly. Not completely.
But truly.
This lamp sits beside me,
on a night stand.
Not just as décor,
but as a quiet beacon:
a symbol that some things—
like love—
survive even the darkest rooms.
And now, it also shines not just in a room,
but through the internet—
a quiet offering of hope,
memory,
and reconnection.
And maybe, just maybe,
light returns to all the places
we thought we’d lost forever.
—Mark Hanze