When I moved out of my gloriously ramshackle off campus student house for an exchange program, I left this gift for my housemates. It was to be placed on the mantle, and I penned a maudlin note suggesting they turn it on whenever they wanted to summon my spirit or some shit like that. The sentiment borders on Forcible Idolatry now that I consider it with the benefit of hindsight.
It would not surprise me to hear that it was never illuminated, and that my housemates didn’t clasp hands and weep for my hasty return under its dull red glow.
When moved back in for my final year, both the house and I had changed. But the lamp was still on the mantle, caked with the dust of the memories I left behind. On the day we all moved out, I quietly claimed it.
Like some memories, dust particles prickle your nose when rejuvenated by light and heat. In the many days since graduation I have not flicked this lamp’s switch, and it is no longer in my possession. The dust too, I imagine, is also gone.
This post was not paid for by Molson Coors.