BY KAREN LEE
THE SPECIES:
LANTERN: a usually portable vessel carrying light, fueled with battery or oil
LAMP: a usually stationary vessel carrying light, accompanied by an attached cord that plugs into an outlet
This kind of day called for an intervention of sorts, or at the very least, a grand meeting at the town hall located in the heart of Lanternland, where all the lanterns would gather and take stock of the situation. And how peculiar the situation was. Well, perhaps peculiar would not be the best word to describe it. After all, a child had just died. Ostensibly, a young lantern had been playing with its toys outside the church where the mother was off doing business of some kind inside. In what witnesses say happened in a split second, three lamps, in their haste, crossed paths simultaneously with their long cords dragging behind them. Though entanglements were rare, the orientation and movement of all four characters in this scene were such that the young lantern found itself right at the intersection of the lamps’ crossing, acting as a hinge point for the lamps’ cords to wrap around. The lantern died of suffocation before it had the chance to cry for help.
And this is where the story begins, with the mother of this young lantern, who was at the church, who did not see her child die, who finds herself at the center of this grand meeting—amongst the shouting, the yelling, the cacophony of lantern voices compound, compound, and compound…
✽ ✽ ✽
At this point, I should be paying attention to the meeting, to the now and to the palaver of it all all. But instead, I find myself looking out into the trees, and all I see are the tapered edges of each branch and how they seem to collide upon one another. Maybe as a young child, I was like like that, too—just bleeding into each intersection, each decision I encountered. I was a lantern of a sheepish kind, I was told. I did not emit a bright nor ambient light, but rather one that pulled teeth out of other people—the kind of luminosity that lights a path with a frustrating dimness that that blurs what is shadow and what is light. This is the kind of life that I lead. One which, like the the trees, decisions are no longer discernable as loci
of divergence are no longer discernable amongst the branches.
Those dirty lamps do not belong in the land of the lanterns
Those snake-like wires speak for themselves
Considering how many lamps there are, I would never
let my child go out of my sight, much less near a lamp
how detestable…
I only loved my child in stillness. How strange I could only discover it in the partitions of my mind no longer mine. Through it, I endured—from its conception to its birth to its rearing; a love love that felt most akin to atonement—in the way that I took responsibility for it, in the way that that I apologized on its behalf, in the way that I scolded it with tears welling in my eyes. Nights Nights, when I counted forsaken dreams, I would stick each one to an apex on the popcorn popcorn ceiling. I would purse my lips and suckle; in my mind, I drink them back. Yet, I would would have succumbed to anything if it meant it would grow up strong and scintillating, much much more than I ever did. And I always knew that it would have. Now, I am unsure of what it means to everlast my child, without it standing in front of me to to behold my repenting.
We need to put those murderers in their place
They’re already on trial
Was this not all an accident
Why are their cords so damn long?
Transportable outlets are all the rage these days
This land is not their place
Why did I go to the church that day? All I remember is how much my child wanted ice cream cream. Hot days like those called for a different texture to temper our minds than any cooling cooling system could do. We both wanted canola oil flavored ice cream, and I didn’t realize until until now that my child had only tried ice cream thrice in its life for every year grown. Why did I I go to the church that day? Oh, my child had only tried ice cream thrice in its life for every year year grown. Why did I go to the church that day? I guess I wanted to stave it off of junk food for for a while. After all, canola oil can clog our wicks. Right?
We must catch them
Take her out, too
We don’t claim her
She is no better than those lamps
Justice—for that poor child!
Today, I am four. I am on my knees, and I am on my hands. I am four. I bow to a blur of feet, “Lanterns, I am sorry.” I am four. I am weeping into my mother’s dress as she sways me side to side; the others have bruised me with their words, for I am the lowest lantern of the land. I am four. I can’t seem to remember my child’s. I am four. Seize her!
I am four.
Writer | Karen Lee ‘25 | kslee25@amherst.edu
Editor | Izzy Baird’ 27 | ibaird27@amherst.edu
Artist | Tiffany Liang ‘27 | tliang27@amherst.edu