Low Light for Tonight

The lamp is on. The city is not sleeping yet. I set my coffee on the sill and check the bulb again. Mrs. Bell comes up at ten, grocery bag against her knee. Young Mateo takes the stairs when his late shift ends at three. I keep one chair beside the landing, one old shade turned warm and low. I say it helps them find the keyhole. That ain't the only reason, though. There's a half-finished line by the rooftop door: Come back when you— I never wrote more. Leave a low light for tonight, nothing bright enough to call. Just enough to say the last step doesn't have to feel so long. If your hands are full, come slowly. If you're tired, take your time. There's a chair beside the rooftop door and a low light for tonight. Your old number wakes my pocket. I let it buzz, then say hello. You tell me Denver got more snow, and your boy starts school this fall. You say, “Dad, I found a good place. You don't need to wait upstairs.” Mrs. Bell drops two red apples. I catch one rolling by my chair. I look at that line by the rooftop door: Come back when you— I don't need it anymore. Leave a low light for tonight, not a signal, not a call. Just enough to show Miss Bell where the landing meets the wall. Mateo, climb it slowly. Mr. James, take your time. There's a chair beside the rooftop door and a low light for tonight. I thought a welcome had one name, one set of footsteps I would know. But a lamp can't choose who needs it, and a man can let hope grow. So I crossed out “Come back when you” and wrote, “Come in and rest awhile.” Then I sent you one small picture. You sent back your mother's smile. Leave a low light for tonight, for the nurse on number nine, for the kid with both arms loaded, for this stubborn heart of mine. You are where your life has led you. I am learning that's all right. There's a chair for any late one and a low light for tonight. I pull the rooftop door in gently. The old latch settles right. The city keeps on breathing. I leave the low light for tonight.