Chiaroscuro
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The image of a distant light has followed me since childhood.
One, a ceiling lamp blurred by smoke as I nearly died in my crib.
The other, seen years later in a field and written about in The Lamp Post. I didn’t know they were the same light— until I wrote this.
It was a ghostly orb
obscured by smog—
glowing faintly yellow
at the center and fading
to amber,
then ochre,
raw sienna,
and finally umber—
as if the light itself
were turning into smoke—
and I couldn’t breathe.
Even my crib was hazy
beneath the poisonous
congregation of vapors
roiling and swirling
near the ceiling
and descending lower,
like tornado clouds, brown and black—
and I wondered
where was my dad.
Maybe he heard me coughing,
or finally noticed the smoke—
a yellow rectangle appeared
with him silhouetted within,
but I was already drifting
and woke up somewhere else.
Years later, in a field at night,
I saw a lamp post glowing
in the distance—
soft-edged, haloed,
as if blurred by breath or memory.
I didn’t think of the nursery,
not then—
but something in me paused,
and recognized the shape of despair.
Copyright © Roxanne Andorfer | Year Posted 2025
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