Lauren Kelley
Every morning and every night, I screw in a lightbulb.
There is no switch in the basement where I live. No fixture is meant to stay lit. The bulb hangs loose, waiting to be screwed into place so I can see the floor, the doorway, my hands.
When I’m done moving through the space, I unscrew it again and set it down.
The bulb is not broken. The room is.
Light is something I have to earn with both hands. Twist. Hold steady. Don’t rush. I have learned the exact pressure to make contact without cracking the glass. Too fast, and it slips. Too tight, and it breaks. The action is small, but it demands care.
I don’t leave the light on. Not because I’m frugal or disciplined, but because the room was not built to hold it. Here, illumination is temporary—conditional. It appears only when I am inside it and lasts only as long as I pay attention.
This is how I move through the space: bringing what’s needed and removing it when I leave. I don’t confuse this with comfort. I don’t call it improvement.
But each time the filament warms, the room becomes usable. The light doesn’t reach far, but it’s enough to keep me from tripping as the room hums around me. For the duration of that glow, I am allowed to be there.
Lauren Kelley is a writer of creative nonfiction and hybrid work. Her writing explores tension, perception, and the shifting ground between presence and absence. Her work appears in Panorama and is forthcoming in Inglenook Literary. She lives in Minnesota and publishes at unreliableonpurpose.com and on Instagram @unreliableonpurpose.