I leave the light on every night at eight,
the porch one, the one she said was too bright,
the one she squinted at when she came home late
and laughed and said I was wasting light.
But now the light is the only thing
that still does what I ask.
It doesn’t argue, doesn’t leave,
doesn’t wear a mask.
It just stays on,
burning through the dark for her,
waiting for a car
that doesn’t come anymore.
I changed the bulb twice since she left.
The first time because it blew.
The second time because the new one
was a different shade and she’d have noticed too.
She noticed everything–
the crooked welcome mat,
the spider on the mailbox,
the way I always wore that same old hat.
I left the light on
in case she comes back.
It’s the smallest act of faith
I have intact.
The house is dark
except for that one glow,
and if she drives past,
at least she’ll know.
At least she’ll know
the door’s not locked.
At least she’ll know
I haven’t stopped.