Night Light
When I was nine years old, my mom woke my younger brother and me early one morning to clothe and prepare us for a drive to my Grandpa Roger’s house. She said that it was time for us to say our goodbyes. I didn’t understand what she’d meant at the time, but she had a demeanor about her that encouraged me to waste no time following her directions. I was lying on the floor with my legs and feet outstretched—that’s how I’d position myself for my mom to put my shoes on. She was working on the left foot first when she received a phone call and answered it with urgency. As she hung up, she looked at me with tears in her eyes and told me that we were too late. I still didn’t understand what she’d meant, but I wasted no time following her directions when she told my brother and me that we needed to get into the car quickly. The drive to Grandpa Roger’s house was solemn and quiet.
We arrived at Grandpa Roger’s house and shuffled inside with haste. That’s when I saw my dad standing next to my sleeping grandfather. And he was crying—that was the first time I’d ever seen my dad cry. Although my dad was beside him and the rest of us had just arrived, he never opened his eyes or woke up to say hello. My confusion and ignorance were soon replaced with grief and a better understanding of death. I sorrowfully watched as other people came, one by one, to say their goodbyes to Grandpa Roger. Some of those people I had never seen before, and I felt surrounded by unfamiliarity. I clung to my mom and wished that the experience would all have been a bad dream that I’d soon wake up from. But it wasn’t. Fate had come to reclaim my Grandpa Roger, and I’d now become aware of mortality.
When my brother and I would go to Grandpa Roger’s house, we were to avoid saying we were bored. Had we ever said those words, he would challenge us to go outside to his backyard and look for four-leafed clovers. We would look for them effortlessly and sulk back inside to say, in a defeated tone, that there were none. He always said that we weren’t looking hard enough, but we defiantly disagreed. My brother and I were children with a short attention span and a desire to keep ourselves occupied with what we perceived as more “fun” methods, but he was right. We never did look hard enough.
A short while after Grandpa Roger passed, my mom handed my brother and me both a small green bag. She’d said that he wanted us to have them and what he’d left inside. I eagerly pulled things from the green bag, finding that one of the things he’d left for me was a booklet of four-leafed clovers that he’d collected over the years. I’d finally believed him. To this day, if I ever happen to find myself sitting atop a bed of grass, I am meticulously looking for four-leafed clovers.
I keep the booklet of clovers safe inside of a brown, medium-sized chest where I store other loose memories and sentimental things given to me by my Grandpa Roger, such as a skeleton key, a gold hair barrette, and the cover of a night light that he gave me when I was afraid of the dark. I keep the key and the barrette inside of a smaller box that resides within the chest. It’s where I keep the smaller “big” things. I’ve never, not even in twenty years, worn the barrette outside as I could never forgive myself if I were to lose it. I am not sure what the skeleton key was created to open, but it rests comfortably inside of the box along with the myriad of other keys just like it that I’ve started collecting—because of him.
I stare at the night light cover. It’s a flat piece of stained glass, broken off of the fixture it was attached to many years ago. It’s in the shape of a heart, colored red, with two white sparrows carrying a pink ribbon between them. I used to imagine that Grandpa Roger and I were each one of those sparrows, and the ribbon a metaphor for the love we had for each other. Carried endlessly, mutually, to the heavens. The image, projected onto my walls from the yellow light behind it, would comfort me and repel the monsters I used to be afraid would come for me while I slept. The light always made me feel safe and secure, as if the darkness was the origin of such monsters and not my own fear. I wonder when I became fearless enough to sleep without it.
I think, “I should wear the barrette.” I make excuses such as “I don’t want to lose it” and “I prefer silver.” But I think what I really mean is that I don’t want to lose the feeling of indifference that comes with not wearing it. I don’t want to feel the pain of losing Grandpa Roger. The act of carefully snapping it shut around strands of my thick hair would remind me of the way I’ve snapped myself shut; I’ve sealed the barrette, the key, the clovers, and the stained glass night light cover all away along with my grief. All of it in a chest, underneath my bed with the monsters. It feels as though the older I get, the more aware I become of mortality, and the more I mourn those I lost when I was too young to understand the concept. I agonize over what life would be like if Grandpa Roger were still here. I wonder if we’d still be close. I wonder if he’d be proud of me.
I should wear the barrette. After all, black and gold do look good together. Every time I find a skeleton key, I will bring it home, allow it to unlock a door that shelters a heartache within me, and I will set it free. When summer arrives and I am sitting on the ground surrounded by sharp blades of grass and even more painful recollections, I will be really looking for four-leafed clovers. And when I find them, I will collect them in that booklet with the other clovers so old that they flake and break apart at the touch. It’ll be a subtle reminder of how things age—a reminder of mortality.
I put my socks and shoes on starting with my left foot first. It’s a habit I’ve developed over the years. And I am still afraid of the dark. I still cannot sleep without some sort of soft light around me. It makes me feel safe and secure, as if the darkness is the origin of the things that I fear. On the really bad nights, I will hold that stained glass heart up to the light and watch how it reflects its image onto my walls. I will imagine myself as a sparrow carrying a ribbon of love way up into the heavens and meeting Grandpa Roger there. And before we fly through the skies together—before I slip peacefully into a sound and guarded sleep—I will tell him I’m sorry that I never got to say goodbye and that one day, maybe, just maybe, I will finally be able to sleep in the dark.
