birdhouse in your soul
I drove back from D’s apartment after dropping off a few things, and at a stoplight, glanced over at the passenger footwell to see a faint wisp of white LED light shining from the front of the amp under the seat. There’s always been something deeply reassuring about small lighted sentinels “standing guard” over me, like tiny lighthouses. When I was a pre-teen, instead of turning off my radio completely at night, I’d simply turn down the volume so the red “stereo” light would remain lit, watching me as I slept. I used to have a subscription to Flying magazine, and one of my favorite ads featured the profile of a business jet cruising at night, the dim light from its windows and the spectral outline of the jet itself the only things visible in the photo. I loved the feeling of the ad, the idea that the plane’s passengers were safe and warm inside while the pilots vigilantly monitored the flight from the cockpit. And on winter nights, when I take the dog out the back door to do her business before bed, through the naked trees, I can often see the faint light of a distant window peeking through the forest.
The common element between all these is that somehow, they remind me, in a tangible way, that someone, somewhere is watching over me. Or maybe it’s all just a fancy way of saying I like nightlights. Either way, I don’t care that it may seem childish; these days, I’ll take all the sources of reassurance I can get, especially ones that have a history of connecting deeply with me.