This lamp, given to me by my mother, is of provenance unknown. She forgets where it came from and I have little interest in finding out myself. Not through lack of curiosity but more because the gift, to me, is provenance enough. I will pass it on, too, with this bare story, though slightly more established through lineage.
Because of this anonymity, I admire it all the more. It remains aloof and slightly enigmatic, qualities I’m often attracted to, though it’s been present in every house I’ve ever lived. Despite these contradictions, I feel I know it as intimately as is possible to know an inanimate object. It is, without doubt, one of my few concessions to materialism. Most importantly, it casts the most perfect light – comforting and warm, as lamplight should be. There is love in this light.
Shelley’s lines – “When the lamp is shattered/The light in the dust lies dead” – would ring true were its fragile glass shade to break. “O Love! Who bewailest/The frailty of all things here/Why choose you the frailest/For your cradle, your home and your bier?”.
