You can tell a lot about a home
and its occupants
by the quality of the hidden lamp switch
inside a lampshade-shielded accent light.
I palpate in the inky moonless night,
trying to bring illumination to the room
I’ve crept to in search of a place to read
while the others sleep.
I crawl my hand up a sturdy, glazed ceramic base,
my forearm erupting in goosebumps upon touch
of the air conditioner-chilled burgundy clay.
Though color unseen, its gradients
in shine and rough come through in low lumens.
This vase turned lighting was previously fired and glazed
by some local artist, surely.
It now sits here, resolute in the night, a vessel in use.
As my blind fingers seek purchase on a switch,
without knowing what type of mechanism I’m grasping for —
triggering intrusive thoughts that I will away from my unguarded extremities
silently scolding any lurking South American death spiders
that might have taken up residence inside the linen shade,
à la Arachnophobia (thanks Jeff Daniels for ruining my childhood and ever after).
This time, as I exhale with growing confidence,
I avoid the freak yet preventable death
of being pierced by a pair of unseen chelicerae,
the calculating fangs and mouth parts of
an eight-limbed monster of my un-slept imagination —
I gain purchase on a cool metal knob with tactile ribbing.
Though I cannot see this switch,
my digits deduce it is manufactured from brass,
no mere Home Goods impulse buy with those flimsy plastic switches
that could just as well be ebony-hued toothbrush caps.
I step back, assess the rest of the room I mean to lounge in,
now that the light illuminates the post-midnight solarium,
its pitched skylights hung darkened,
a room barely navigable 'til I'd found plug and switch.
I take in now, that the couch is striped
in hues that project subtle, endless luxury.
Not cornflower blue, not baby blue.
Something gently in between,
a soothing rolling slate-tinged blue
one surely meant to evoke the marine cloud layer
and inland bushes of wild blueberries.
This understated azure marries with dashed lines of flaxen threads,
evocative of espadrilles, next to yet more stripes,
these the pale color of sun-warmed New England sand.
I rub my tired fingers over the textured upholstery,
attempting to decode the braille of its weave,
understand its origins.
I lift a throw pillow in matching fabric, marveling at its heft.
Another childhood scene comes to mind,
the lawyer in Jurassic Park asking the pair of siblings:
"Are they heavy?" [Yeah] "Then they're expensive, put 'em down!"
Silently chided by the ghost of a movie character t
hirty-one years in the past,
I dutifully release the pillow,
arranging it just-so on the corner of the sofa.
The window perch is another hint,
its patterned pair of window cushions atop a half wall library,
beckoning the bold of knee to climb up
and read above the fray of the floor people.
The shelves hold hundreds of hardcovers,
cookbooks and hiking guides and children’s holiday tales
and NYT Best seller dramas,
but also curated collections of history, politics, philosophy.
Heavy reads for a summer home.
While the books lend me to infer the owners and I
might not have the most comfortable dinner conversations,
their absence allows me to grant them grace and space to be,
without overt judgement.
My toes curl over the bubbly throw rug beneath me,
deducing natural wool as the predominant textile,
scratchy-soft bounce underfoot
giving me confidence to speculate
without using the pads of my fingers to confirm.
Yes, this summer cottage has the fixtures and furnishings
of a family who cares, who notices, who enjoys fine things.
And my own family happened to fall into their rental
through the power of a mirrored iPhone
on our own family room television so many months ago,
not knowing we’d luck into such finery.
This brass-knobbed table lamp
projects not only warm white light
that casts a protective golden bubble
around the darkness of the night,
but also quietly communicates:
little things matter.
That investing in things that work pleasingly,
properly, punctually allows for a life
where burrs are ground down before entry
and life can unfold
a little more gently, softly for those inside.
Yes.
You can tell a lot
about people you’ll never meet
by how they fill their home.
