Reversion

He never would - or could - tell us where he found it or what made him pick it up.

All I know is he left home for work one day, and he came back with it tucked up under his arm.  I was too young to remember much else except how excited he was to show it to Mama.

I don't know if he and Mama fought about it.  The certain disgust in the way she eyed that thing suggested they probably did have a quarrel or two, but such things weren't brought up in my presence.  And anyway, after a while, no one brought it up again.  We were used to it, I guess.  Wouldn't have mattered if we weren't.

That lamp.

It wasn't a pretty one or even an interesting one you might find at a rummage sale and buy on account of the kitsch.  No, this was just a simple lamp without a shade or a bulb, not significant in any aspect of appearance other than its permanent position under his arm.  No exaggeration, either.  He carted that lamp with him everywhere he went.  As far as I know, ever since he picked it up somewhere between work and home, he never put it back down again.
  
Didn't matter where he went or what he did; that lamp never left the safety of his arms.  Just between you and me, I suspect it was the reason why I never got any brothers and sisters.  And I tell you, you think you've seen all things until you've seen a man in the wash basin with his lamp as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Everyone in town knew him.  Everyone in town knew his lamp, too.  I guess small town folk don't worry themselves too much over the eccentricity of one of their own.  Not when there were newcomers and strangers to be gossiped about.  I mean, sure, at first it was a little awkward for them - and for me and Mama - but not for him.  I'd wager he thought of the lamp as an extension of himself... if he even thought about it at all.

Early on, a couple of neighborhood kids thought it would be funny to take it from him.  Number one, I don't think they realized he never put it down.  Number two, I don't think they counted on his reaction.  Now, I'll tell you that Mama and I never touched the lamp.  I'm not sure about her reasons, but as for mine... something about it repelled me.  I can't rightly explain it, but I felt as though the lamp didn't want me to touch it, and anyway, I never did.  I never really wanted to.

I guess those kids didn't feel the same way.  I've never seen as angry a man as my father was that day, and I swear I never knew he could be the violent type.  Both those kids never spoke to me or my family again, and one never did get the full use of his hands back.

Mama died of consumption - the "great white plague" they called it - but I don't think he really noticed.  On some level, he must have since he went to the funeral and all, but that was just him going through the motions.  He didn't really care about anything else once the lamp showed up, and we all knew it.  Even Mama.  But she tried her hardest to love and to understand him despite everything.  It wasn't easy.  Sometimes I think she let the consumption win.

After the funeral, he spent less and less time outside the house.  He'd just sit there with his pipe and his lamp staring off like the secrets of the world were in the wallpaper.  I would run errands and keep the house clean for him, but I don't know that he would have noticed if I hadn't.  He just held on to his lamp and got older and held on to his lamp some more and kept getting older.

Eventually, the time came when I grew up and married and started a little family of my own.  You get busy with little ones, you know, and sometimes everything else fades into the background.  Well, that's what happened.  And before I knew it, he had died.

So here I am, just walking the familiar path to my childhood home knowing exactly what I'll find when I arrive.  He'll be in his chair, lamp nestled into the crook of his arm like a favorite hound, his eyes seeing nothing.

And this is exactly the scene I take in when the door swings open.

And there's the lamp.  I take a closer look.  It's quite pretty, actually.  I pick it up from his cold embrace, raising it for a closer inspection.  Such fine craftsmanship.  I can see now why he would want to keep it closely guarded.

I think I'll bring it home and show my wife.