Light Bulb Head

“Dad, is that a light bulb in your head?”
“What?”
I had to stop to think about what I had just said. But I was certain.
“A light bulb?”
“Above my head, eh? You, mean, is something brewin’ up in the old noggin?”
I looked at his eyes- to see the little glints of flickering bulbs, like dying Christmas lights flickering right below his eyelids.
“Eh, no all I got is a cellar door in here- not opening any time soon.”
Then he yawned and poured himself another glass of some age-old whiskey he’d been storing in the cupboard, “It’s gonna get cold tonight.”
Grey town could thank my father for every spark in a dark hallway, and for the caution glows in the streets. Without that caution, every one could have remained cooped up in their homes, feeling the nuts and bolts and crevices of their houses in blindness. They would be colorless; you can’t see color in the dark.
“No, Dad. I’m sure I saw a light bulb.”
Imagine fog hugging each and every nook of a little town, add a little bit of romance like the waters of Venice and the accordions of Paris and then you can feel exactly what I do when it turns dark. They were blurred little fireflies lining our streets in desperation; pushing their light through the inconsistencies of the fog. These light bulbs, assembled by the hands of my father have such a specific destiny that they don’t dare try to be anything else, or try to burn out.
Minutes later, my father descends to his room. I sit in the front room, by the cabin door and I stare at the sad fireplace- dusty not from ashes, but from neglect. I say a little prayer for the fireplace, patting him on the back and then I lay supine on the floor- staring up at the ceiling. My father had gotten carried away with his light bulb invention.
He dyed the thin, fragile glasses with different colors so that when he flipped the switch, a rainbow would appear, adding a little bit of color into the living room when it was so dark outside.
I was convinced that what I’d seen behind his eyes that night was not an idea, but something much more permanent and obstinate. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I’d learned, after hours spent with a paint-set that when you mix all of the colors of the rainbow together, it all just turns into a dead brown.
I heard a scuffle downstairs where my father was sitting at his desk- amidst the myriad parts of the light bulb inventions, little springs and feeble metal pieces; the intestine of the light bulb. I looked at him, and I could see the glow from the very back of his head, not the front and not from the top. It wasn’t an idea, it wasn’t.
Suddenly, there was a buzz, like the sudden movement of a thousand bees against a window and all of the lights in the house went out. In the dark, you can’t see color, so I had to feel for my father in the dark mess. He was bent over his desk and breathing lightly.
I whispered his name softly, but I knew not to interrupt him. Maybe it was an idea. He was a blinking warmth in my arms, slowly growing cold. I saw the small flickering glow behind his eyeballs thumping, pulsing desperately, with all of their might to keep alight. But I knew, as I knew dad’s invention like the contours of my own face that there was no use. The lights could only do so much for so long.
I couldn’t help but think that maybe he should have stuck to making airplane models or writing plays trying to reignite a new, modern appreciation for Shakespeare, but he got stuck on light bulbs. He was consumed by them; he let them keep him up at night, trying to find different shapes for them, spending his days installing them in another person’s home and finding new placement for them in assignments along the streets.
I held him in my arms as the one light bulb he neglected to do routine maintenance on finally, without another fingerprint or twist or blinking glow, died behind his eyelids. He’d felt the screws loose for a while, and we both knew there were no more ideas flickering in his head left.
We had a power outage in the town for 3 entire days. It took 5 electricians from outside the province to finally repair everything back to normal. I thought maybe they could make the living room lights sit appropriately in such a way that they could actually form a rainbow hue against the window. But the electricians, educated and experienced, chuckled and reminded me that when you mix every color of the rainbow, it always, without a doubt, no exception, turns to brown.