The lightbulbs in my staircase chandelier somehow loosen every night. By scientific trickery or by mischievous spirits, any evidence I invite. Every time I flip on the hallway switch, five of the six are bright. I gaze in frustration at a single uncharged filament, a rogue denier of light.
To the edge of the tenth step I stretch, reaching precariously up to tighten. Wobbling unsteadily on my tiptoes. A lesser man it would frighten. At this distance, a fall would be deadly but I pay the risk no heed. One must never have an extinguished bulb, there should always be illumination, agreed?
Never is it the same culprit, two consecutive nights in a row. Is there a pattern to this madness? Honestly, I just don’t know. Perhaps I’ll plunge one night to my death, crumpled down below. Then my own flame with be extinguished, and away my spirit will go.