Lamppost

A lamppost stands slanted on the road behind my house.

The open cul-de-sac is devoid of houses and mailboxes, a lonely sort of road. There is no street name, no skid marks. It is only a path leading nowhere.

I walk down the road to clear my mind of that day’s spider webs, only to notice one crafting on a leaf. It is creating a mockery of me, and I resent the little arachnid as I walk past.

I end up at the lamppost near the end of the street, old and broken, flickering when darkness comes. No seeming fleck of paint is missing from its pole. Grass, plants, and thistles thrive beneath its light, reaching toward it as if its artificial beam can sustain them.

Incredible what this lamppost has endured.

A bit frightening, to say the least.

Because here it is, standing tilted and proud through hurricanes, tropical storms, and rain falling like tattered curtains. Yet here it remains, lifted by soiled life.

I gaze at its unspectacular stance and recall when I displayed resilience, the last time being when my father took his poems to the grave. Chasing his dreams, a true depiction of a starving artist. Born with a torturous, wondrous, brilliant mind.

So time shoves me ahead and scolds me when I resist. I reluctantly stopped fighting with it. It nudged me all the way here.

And what a thing it is to behold.

My lamppost.

Its fluorescent flame illuminates the way for not a soul except mine. Knowing when I am brought to my knees, searching for what I will never find, it provides solace and consolation. I see strength’s residue in its rays, enough to remind me.

I wish I could capture it, though a photo will never do.

So I get off my knees and return down the lonesome street.

The spider is gone, along with its webs.

And I guess all is forgiven between me and it.

So I return home.

© 2026 Adriana Crawford. All rights reserved.

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