The Light

One of the things I didn’t expect about living in Spain was how much I would love watching seniors live their lives.

Here, “retired” still means something. You work until a certain age, you pay your taxes, and then you rest. You live. No one rushes you. No one makes you feel like you’re taking up space.

My mom would’ve fit right in. I can picture her getting up early, watering the plants on the balcony, and then getting herself ready to go out to have a café con leche y un pansito . I can actually see her sitting there, staring out at the beach, smoking her cigarette and not worrying about a damn thing. If anyone had earned that, it was her.

I’m just throwing this in here randomly for context, but I’m an atheist. I don’t believe in ghosts or afterlives, but I can tell you with irrefutable scientific proof that my mom lives on…

It’s called DNA.

Keep that in mind as we move through this. It’s been one of those weeks for me — I’m frazzled, frayed, and stuck in psychological survival mode. If you know what that feels like, then you know that I’m watching The Vampire Diaries on repeat until I’m watching Supernatural on repeat until I’m watching Gilmore Girls on repeat … I think you get my point.

A couple of days ago, I was trying to figure out a problem that gave me a headache and decided to lie on the couch for a minute and close my eyes. I’m a lucid dreamer, so I knew that I was in and out of sleep when I felt a soft hand stroke my face. It was in the same gentle and kind way that my mom used to whenever I was overwhelmed. I reached up to touch it and was instantly, like, fully awake. And more than a little freaked out.

But whether that moment was memory or biology or an overwhelmed nervous system — I felt her. And it steadied me.

Yesterday, the fluorescent kitchen light went out. When I asked the landlord if he could come fix it, he said sure — as soon as I bought the replacement and that hit harder than it should have. It wasn’t about the light bulb or the landlord, it was that creeping, exhausting feeling that everything is always on me — even the things that shouldn’t be.

When you’re in survival mode, a burnt-out light bulb can feel like the last straw. So… I kind of lost it. The tears just came, I couldn’t help it.

But, I rallied and grabbed a lamp from the living room, stuck it in the kitchen, and not only did it light it perfectly, it actually looked cool. I might even keep it there. And you know what? That’s soooo my mom. She hated fluorescent lighting anyway.

That night, I cleaned up, turned off the lamp, and went to bed.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I got up for water and, out of habit, flipped the kitchen switch.

And buzzzz, blinkity, blink, blink, click — the light came on!

I didn’t notice it right away, I just did what I needed to do. But on the way out, I turned it off and froze mid-step. I turned it on and off again, just to check.

In my head: Yep. Working fine. Huh. So… that happened.

I headed back toward my room and froze again as a strange realization hit me. I turned around, raised my chin, and thought:

That was you, wasn’t it, Mom?

I didn’t need to believe in anything mystical for that moment to matter. I didn’t question it. I didn’t rationalize it. I simply said,

“Thanks for that. I really miss you.”

Then I went to bed and fell into a deep, restful sleep.

So, I want to end this post by saying that if you’ve lost someone — and it feels like they took a chunk of you with them — try standing in front of a mirror and talking to them. Close your eyes if you need to, don’t respond to yourself, and just listen.

Because you’ll hear them. They’re in the things you know, they’re in the way you show up, they’re in the part of you that survives the dark.

And sometimes, without even asking — because you didn’t know how much you needed it — they help you turn the lights back on.

I love it when a plan comes together.