I remember the night,
the lightbulb in your room
died.
I don’t remember events,
only you.
You were in my arms.
Furtively, I looked up,
was that a hiss?
Considered replacing it.
Considered asking
someone else
to replace it.
Fortunately, for us, there were
two bulbs
in the ceiling light.
Before bed, each night,
while you sat tethered to
a tube feed
downstairs,
on your play mat,
I’d flip on the light.
I’d tidy up your crib,
fold your blankets,
rearrange stuffed animals.
I’d drape several blankets
over the rails, so you wouldn’t
wake up fearing
shadowy spaces.
I’d do this every night,
in half-light.
Half-light became my life.
For eight months, I thought,
“I’ll change that bulb,” but then,
you died.
The light became synonymous
with my life.
Half of me dead,
the other half alive.
Barely alive.
Ready to burn out,
at any time.
Then,
I gave birth to your baby
brother.
A new life.
It occurred to me,
I didn’t want him to begin his life
in half-light.
I thought about changing the bulb,
that was once in your
room, but now belongs to
him.
A stranger to you, sleeping in your
crib.
Did you two meet, in the in-between?
The between time, after you died,
before he took his first gulp of air
after you let out your last.
Every night, I flip the switch of the light
that once belonged to you.
Each time I do, I think about
changing it.
I don’t.
It’s the only constant.
The bridge that closes the gap
between you and your brother.
From your life to his.
From your room to his.
From your crib to his.
It makes time
not so linear,
for a minute we all exist,
together,
when I flip the switch
and on goes
only half of the light.