7. The Lamp Above the Table

On grief, timing, and a flicker of presence

The lamp above the table was controlled by her spirit.
It blinked—just long enough for us to notice.
And at the right moment, too.
A nod in approval.

Mom died twelve years ago.
Three offspring mourned.

We siblings got together the other day—six days, no spouses, no kids.
One night, we sat at a table beneath a cozy lamp and talked.

Then she came up.
Mom.
We spoke about her departure.
No one else can see her death from the perspective of the offspring.

It was a special night—like a sacred gathering, with all members in attendance.
One of us expressed guilt about certain things.
The other two gently said that guilt wasn’t deserved.

That’s when Mom nodded.
She nodded in approval.
Or perhaps the lamp short-circuited—at just the right moment.

It happened three more times.
Each one perfectly timed with what we were saying.

We looked at each other, surprised.
Is this for real? we thought.
Perhaps. Or perhaps not.

Then my heart exploded.

Twelve years of trying to ignore the pain.
Trying to avoid thinking about her.
It hurts.
It’s easier to stay numb, focusing on the unimportant.

But that night, I allowed myself to feel it.
To feel how much I miss that woman.

The following days, I watched the lamp closely.
Not a single flicker.
Steady as it can be.

Was it pure coincidence?
Perhaps.
But what a special one.

—

—Perhaps a sign. Perhaps not.