In The Dying Light by Nigel Byng

In The Dying Light by Nigel Byng

He is holding the old kerosene lamp, and I am cradling the smoke-tinged shade he had asked me to hold so carefully. I didn’t even wish to breathe for fear I would drop it.

He was refilling the oil font, setting the wick, grinding his teeth. Hands moving methodically, gracefully. His furrowed brow, balding head, grey eyes, and speckled mustache are the only features I can make out. I could smell the tobacco on his shirt, and the white rum on his breath.

He strikes a match and the glow illuminates the space between us. He lights the wick and waits for the flame to spread across the damp cotton.
“Alright. Set the shade in place gently.” He instructs me.

My little hands shake and he guides them between the decorative clasps and the lamp is set.

‘Adjust the wick, Mikhailov.”

I turn the little brass disk at the side and the room brightens, a halo forming above our heads. He is there, smiling. The little moles under his eyes form the constellation of Orion’s Belt. His skin glistens in the heat of the warm Caribbean night. He grunts as he stands upright, pressing his hands against his thighs. He is getting old.
“Head back to bed son. You have school in the morning.”

Then he picks up the lamp and walks away. His ghostly shadow disappearing down the narrow hall, the halo following, sheltering his shadow in the dying light. The room is dark again. I am eight years old.

I don’t have many vivid memories of the old man anymore.

© Nigel Byng, 2024.

Author’s Bio

Nigel Byng is a freelance writer, living in the USA. He recently contributed to Happiness in Unexpected Places; an anthology of stories compiled by authors and media professionals from across the globe. His writing can be found on Signs of the Times Australia; MasticadoresIndia, or on his personal blog http://www.hytsdaily.com where he displays his love of fiction and poetry under his pen name, Jerome Kenrick.