Have I mentioned I have cats?  I believe that may have come up in the conversation a time or two.  Have I mentioned how many cats I actually have?  There are currently nine, most all of which live outside during the day, but at night there is a round up and roll call . . . Tip and Tweeds, Cass and Callie, Henry and Louisa, Herman, Sherman, and Sam.  I have them somewhat grouped so I’ll know when I’ve actually counted all their furry little heads.

I realize that bringing everyone in comes at a considerable cost, namely the safety of our stuff, but even though we reside within the city limits, there are wild beasts that dwell in our woods, beasts that roam at night and devour small furry creatures.  I know we’ve had coyotes, and at one time there was a bobcat (don’t raise one eyebrow and cock your head at me . . . it ended up dead in the road compliments of a passing car, so I know it existed . . . or did . . .), and there are foxes and other such critters that would just love to make a meal out of one of my kitties.  So everyone comes inside and I can sleep because I know everyone is safe.

Our stuff, on the other hand, not so much.  Monday morning—at 6:43 to be precise—I awoke to a rather loud THUD , the kind that you just know does not bode well for something.  I crawled out of bed and wandered through the house, until I came to the living room.

In the living room there is a sofa that sits against the wall with a somewhat small end table to either side, each of which has—excuse me, had—a lamp that had graced them since our days on Choctaw Circle.  That would be about 35 plus years of table gracing.  But that morning, only one lamp still occupied its appointed table.  The other one was lounging in the floor . . . in pieces.  Herman, who is a ball of fat wrapped in a wad of fur, had been using the table as a perch from which to survey the world.  Evidently, on that particular morning, he and the lamp did battle.  The lamp lost.

The three pieces broken from the base are fairly large and most of the damage is on the back, so I’m thinkin’ I can glue this thing back together.  With that in mind, I took the pieces to the kitchen counter and moved the rest of the lamp and shade closer to the table, out of the way of traffic moving from the back of the house to the kitchen.

Monday evening, after the troops were assembled and accounted for, I started across the house and, out of habit, flipped the light switch that activates the outlets in the living room into which the lamps are plugged.  Yes, I have one of those houses where even the outlets operate on a switch, which can be terribly confusing if you don’t know that’s a thing.  But I digress, as I so often do.  Anyway, as I walked across the living room I became aware of an unearthly glow coming from the floor beside the sofa.  Despite all of its trials and tribulations—and the fact that filaments tend to break if you so much as blow on the light bulb—the lamp was on and working—in the floor and on its side, but on and working.

There are many times in life that human beings can feel, or actually be, broken, especially if they are trying to adjust to life after loss.  And if we don’t know how well they’re adjusting, we may tend to leave them alone, thinking they need space or time or privacy or something that means we shouldn’t include them in life’s everyday activities.  Unfortunately, those things may be the last things they need.  Assuming they want to be left alone or would not be interested in participating in some activity or event can lead to them feeling even more isolated than they may already.

Always offer when you have the opportunity.  Always include those who are grieving, even though they may decline.  You never know when they might just accept your thoughtful invitation; whether or not they do, at least they know you’re thinking of them.  Just because someone feels broken doesn’t mean they still can’t shine enough to brighten their corner of the world.  And that might be just exactly what they need.

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