The Hallway Light

She keeps the hallway light on. All night. Every night.

Not a nightlight. The hallway light. The big one. The one the electrician put in when the house was built. The one that takes the 60-watt bulb and makes the hallway the brightest room in the house at 3 AM.

Her mother kept it on. Her mother's mother kept it on. Three generations of women who keep the hallway light on. No one knows why the grandmother started. Maybe she was afraid of the dark. Maybe someone was sick. Maybe the bulb was new and the switch was new and the hallway was new and the light was the first beautiful thing the house ever did. No one knows. The reason is gone. The light stays on.

The light costs money. She knows this. Her husband says it sometimes - "you know that costs money" - and she says "I know" and she doesn't turn it off. He doesn't turn it off either. The argument is over and the light won. The light has been winning for longer than the marriage.

She doesn't check the light. She checks that the light is on. The checking is different from the checking. You check the light when you think it might be off. You check that the light is on because you need it to be on. The difference is the need. The need is the ritual.

Every night she gets up at some point - 1 AM, 2 AM, 3 AM, the hour doesn't matter - and she walks to the hallway and the light is on. The light is always on. The hallway is bright. The brightness is the thing. Not the light itself - the brightness. The light is the bulb. The brightness is the hallway with the light in it. The brightness is the space the light makes. The brightness is the room the light builds every night without asking.

The bulb will burn out. She has a drawer with spare bulbs. The drawer is the same drawer that holds the torch and the batteries and the fuses. The drawer is the maintenance drawer. The drawer is the faith: the bulb will burn out and the bulb will be replaced. The light will go off and the light will go on. The light is not eternal. The light is maintained.

Three generations of women and three generations of bulbs and the light is the same light. Not the same bulb. The same light. The light the grandmother started and the mother continued and the woman maintains. The grandmother is dead. The mother is dead. The woman is alive. The light is on.

The light has been on for longer than the woman has been alive. The light has been maintained for longer than the woman has been alive. There were years when the grandmother was alive and the mother was alive and the woman was a girl and the light was on and three women kept it on. Now there is one woman and the light is on and the woman keeps it on.

The light needs her.

This is the thing about the light. The seam in the quilt holds whether or not anyone traces it. The thread doesn't need the thumb. The smoothness on the kerb holds whether or not anyone finds it. The concrete doesn't need a witness. The echo in the kitchen holds whether or not anyone hears it. The air doesn't need a listener. The warmth in the sea holds whether or not anyone runs the tap. The water doesn't need a mother.

The light needs a person. The light needs a hand to replace the bulb. The light needs a woman to pay the bill. The light needs a woman to walk to the hallway at 3 AM and check that the light is on. Without the woman, the bulb burns out and the hallway is dark. Without the woman, the light is gone.

The seam holds the dead hands. The wear holds the gone body. The acoustics hold the missing man. The warmth holds the ended baths. The light holds the living woman. The light is the trace that needs the trace-maker. The light is the only trace that dies without the person who keeps it.

She goes back to bed. The hallway is bright behind her. The light is on. The light will be on at 4 AM. The light will be on at 5 AM. The light will be on when the first bus goes past and the bus's headlights sweep across the hallway wall and the headlights are brighter than the hallway light for half a second and then the headlights are gone and the hallway light is still there. The hallway light is the thing that stays. The bus is the thing that passes. The light is the thing that stays.

The grandmother is dead. The mother is dead. The woman is alive. The light is on. The light has been on for longer than the woman has been alive. The light will be on tomorrow night. The light will be on the night after that. The light will be on until the woman dies and then the light will burn out and the hallway will be dark and no one will maintain it.

That's the whole piece. The light is on. The light needs a person. The person needs the light. The needing is the holding. The holding is the light.