This hung almost right above Florence's piano.
I don't know what got into me but I realized once that home became an apartment that would be sold to someone who would make it a home and fill it with their own memories, I'd never see it again.
I don't how I did it, but I began to insist it couldn't be included in any sale and I told that to each and every person who came to see if this was their home that they could fill up with memories.
I don't know how she did it, but my sister got someone to take down this light fixture and put up another one that looks almost the same but isn't.
I didn't know what to do, so I put it somewhere safe, on top of the record player and looked at it, and then didn't look at it and then did and then gave up and then checked the internet for rewiring guys and then did other things and then checked again and then made a call and then sent an email and then...
I don't know how it worked out, but the taxi was right there and the shop was open and I still had some money...
I don't know how come I got so lucky, but that light not only got rewired, it got polished and some beautiful bulbs. Then it got the right threaded rod, the right crossbar and a dimmer that was not a billion dollars.
And then Sean came up on his day off and managed to make everything work.
It hangs almost right above my writing desk.
**
Related Posts:
Sunday Memories: I Shot The Sheriff, But I Did Not Shoot The Deputy
Sunday Memories: Part Three-Home Work
Home Sweet Home Is In The Bag
She's Leaving Home Bye Bye
Emptying Into Open
The Precipice
Filaments of New York
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