Electric Memories

I was halfway through changing the porch light when I noticed the flicker. Not the usual buzz-and-die kind of flicker you get from a tired bulb, but the sort that feels aware.

The light steadied whenever I looked at it, then danced again as soon as I turned away.

“Don’t start,” I muttered, tightening the new bulb. “Not today.”

Inside, the kitchen light joined in. Then the hallway.

Even the old lamp by my recliner pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. Buddy lifted his head from his nap and gave me that look, the one that said you’re on your own, pal.

I sighed, flipped the wall switch a few times for good measure, and sat down. The room went dim, then brightened on its own. It was as if the house was trying to get my attention.

That’s when I remembered what my friend Kay used to say: “Be the reason that lights flicker when you enter a room.”

She meant it metaphorically, of course, to make people notice you, even in small ways. Leave a spark. Trouble is, she said it so often it stuck in the wiring.

She’s been gone ten years now. I still catch myself setting out two cups of coffee in the morning. Old habits die harder than old lightbulbs.

The lamp near the photo shelf buzzed again. I looked up, and there Kay was in the frame, standing in her Sunday dress, one hand on her hip. I swear the light over her picture pulsed a little brighter.

“Alright,” I said softly, “I get it. You’re still running the place.”

The flickering slowed, then steadied. For a while, I sat there in the quiet hum of electricity and memory. I could almost hear Kay’s voice, that teasing lilt she used whenever I got too serious.

Later that evening, I walked through the house, turning off lights, but one in the hallway refused to stay dark. I’d flip the switch, and out it went. Take two steps, and back on again.

“Okay, fine,” I laughed. “You win.”

When I finally crawled into bed, the ceiling light gave one last shimmer, like a wink. I felt a warmth in my chest that had nothing to do with the blanket.

In the morning, the house behaved itself, no flickering or buzzing, just sunlight spilling through the curtains. For a moment, I thought maybe I’d imagined it all, but as I brewed my coffee, I noticed a ray of light above the photo shelf.

Maybe that’s what she meant all along. Be the reason lights flicker, not because you break things, but because you stir something alive.

And if you’re lucky, when you’re gone, the world still hums a little in your wake.