I have an oil lamp that sits atop my bookshelf. It was my mother's, her mother's before her, I think. I found it in a closet next to wicker baskets and old jackets and decided I'd take it. Mother said to get a special kind of oil so I could burn it in the house. I asked the hardware man and he said, You really planning on using that thing?
When it gets dark and I'm here on my own, I light the oil lamp on my bookshelf. The oil slicks my fingers and the smoke has stained my walls. This was how people got light inside, light the wick and twist the knob and let it grow, let it fill the room. It smells like work and history, and I'm only slightly worried my house will burn down.
Do I use it? I light it. That's use, I think, to me. Does it light my way? Up the stairs or late at night? Not really. But it sits there and adds a story, adds to mine, and I bet in fifty years it could still be working, sitting on shelves and lighting up rooms.
When it gets dark and I'm here on my own, I light the oil lamp on my bookshelf. The oil slicks my fingers and the smoke has stained my walls. This was how people got light inside, light the wick and twist the knob and let it grow, let it fill the room. It smells like work and history, and I'm only slightly worried my house will burn down.
Do I use it? I light it. That's use, I think, to me. Does it light my way? Up the stairs or late at night? Not really. But it sits there and adds a story, adds to mine, and I bet in fifty years it could still be working, sitting on shelves and lighting up rooms.
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