Light On

For reasons I still cannot quite explain, I have always been the planner.

Not in a grand, color-coded, binder-on-the-shelf sort of way. Nothing that fancy. More like a quiet habit. A steady hum in the background. The kind that asks, gently but persistently, “What will they need when I am not here?”

I started early.

Before I even stepped into my own life, I made sure my mother would be cared for. Not perfectly, of course. Life does not allow for perfect arrangements. But thoughtfully. Intentionally. I wanted her days to feel steady, like a well-tended garden that could keep growing without me standing there with the watering can.

Then came the years with Terry.

And oh, how I planned.

Medical supplies tucked where they made sense. Notes that only I would understand, and somehow expected him to decode like a treasure map. Little systems, quiet preparations, small comforts arranged like stones along a path. I did not make a show of it. I simply built a life that could hold him gently, even in my absence.

Because somewhere along the way, I decided I would go first.

I never held a meeting about it. No formal declaration. Just a quiet understanding I carried around like a folded piece of paper in my pocket. Some nights I was so tired, so deeply worn down, that it felt entirely reasonable. I would look at him and say, very matter-of-fact, “If I happen to be gone overnight, it has been wonderful knowing you. I love you.”

He would look at me the way one looks at someone who has misplaced their sense but not their sincerity.

And then I gave him instructions.
Of course I did.

“When I am gone,” I told him, “just light a candle and play that song ‘Light On.’ I will hear it. I will come home and visit.”

It seemed like a solid plan at the time.
Simple. Efficient. A little poetic, which I appreciated.

And then, as life so often does, everything shifted.

Terry went first.

No revised schedule. No opportunity for me to update the plan or file an appeal.

Just like that, I was no longer the one preparing to leave. I was the one staying.
The one holding the candle.

It took me a while to understand the irony. But eventually, I did. Because if there is one thing I have learned, it is this. Plans are helpful. They give us structure, a sense of care, a way to love people in advance.

But they are not in charge.

Life is.

And life, it seems, has a sense of humor.

Now, every so often, I light a candle. Not because I expect instructions to be followed precisely, but because it feels right. The flame is steady. The room softens. The song plays, familiar as an old path through the trees.

And I sit there, not waiting, not asking, just noticing.

The quiet.
The warmth.
The memory of laughter tucked into the corners of the room.

I like to think he hears it.

I like to think he smiles at the fact that I am still here, still planning in small ways, still tending to what matters.

And perhaps, just perhaps, he is the one saying now, “I will come visit.”

Funny how that works.

So I carry on.
A little less certain. A little more open.
Still thoughtful. Still steady.
Still me.

And the candle, when it’s lit, feels like a conversation.

Not about endings.

But about connection that continues, in its own gentle way.