Since Iʻm Not a Poet (Iʻll Just Hit You Over the Head With It)

In my Popoʻs house, there is a light above the kitchen sink. It is merely a bare bulb with a string, set above a window just under the ceiling. For a kid to turn it on, sheʻd have to climb up onto the counter to pull that string. I have memories of hiking one leg up onto the counter to sip water from the tap or to rinse the uncooked rice in the pot. But never of turning on that light. Even as I think about it at this moment, it seems an herculean task. It seems like an insurmountable height that even now I could not reach. Perhaps itʻs because right now I feel small. Perhaps not.

But that light over the kitchen sink, I can only remember ever being on during one part of the day: when Dad got ready for work. For years, which ended only recently upon retirement, my dad woke up super early. Weʻre talking 3am or something because he liked to take his time preparing for his day, drinking coffee and working on a crossword.

That light came on when every other was off, and cast a dim glow that didnʻt reach the corners of the kitchen. I see my dad sitting at the table, his cup of instant in front of him. On the rare occasions that Iʻd wake before he left, I might be able to stir his coffee for him. In my memory, my head leans on his shoulder.

When he was ready to leave, heʻd turn off the light and Iʻd run across the house to the living room window to watch him get in his car and impatiently wait while he ran the engine. Iʻd hear the distinct sound of him releasing the emergency break (or maybe thatʻs just memory playing tricks on me) then slowly pull out of the driveway. If he knew I was there, heʻd wave to me and Iʻd wave excitedly back. That gesture would fill me up and I could go back to bed and sleep again.

There were times when I missed the light and missed the coffee and would only get to run to the window to wave goodbye. But if he hadnʻt known I was awake, he wouldnʻt wave to me, no matter how I willed it. I couldnʻt yell out to him that early in the morning, and there werenʻt cell phones to text or call. I missed him and wouldnʻt see him until after school, later in the afternoon. I wouldnʻt feel filled up and it would be difficult to get back to sleep.

That one light in my Popoʻs house, the house in which I grew up-- thatʻs what I think of when I see it. I think of my dad and waving goodbye to him and feeling seen and loved and cherished. I feel indulged. Iʻm sure on those days that I woke up with him, Iʻd make everything take longer because I, a kid, was doing it. It was his routine that I was interrupting and in which he was making space for me. Routine be damned, heʻd always let us stir his coffee. The dim light made the room seem smaller and cozier, and it was just me and him in the whole world. Me and my dad.

Maybe itʻs just in my memory that my dad didnʻt rush me, always waved goodbye, let me rest my head on his shoulder. Maybe itʻs only in my memory that the room was so dimly lit, enclosing me and my dad in a bubble just for us two. What I feel most of all when I think of that light in that kitchen and my dad being in that space is love. The warmth of that glowing bulb is the warmth of that love, and it fills me up when I feel low.