“The Streetlamp That Waited for Me”

The Streetlamp That Waited for Me

By [Ali Rehman]

There is a street in my hometown that most people have forgotten. The asphalt is cracked, the houses lean like tired elders, and the old sycamore trees whisper secrets only the wind ever hears. And yet, at the very end of that lonely stretch of road, there stands a single streetlamp.

It isn’t tall or impressive.

Its paint is chipped, its pole lean and rusted.

But its light — soft, warm, golden — has always felt different.

It felt alive.

When I was a child, I would walk down that road alone after school. My house was the last one on the corner, and that streetlamp stood guard just before our gate. Every day, whether the sky was bright or storm-dark, the lamp would flicker twice as I approached, almost like it was greeting me.

I used to wave at it.

And sometimes, I swear, its glow got warmer.

My mother told me it was just faulty wiring, but I believed the lamp could hear me. I believed it saw me — the quiet child who didn’t fit in, who didn’t speak much, who carried invisible worries in small trembling hands.

That streetlamp became my friend.

As the years passed, childhood faded the way summer evenings do — softly, slowly, until one day you wake up and nothing looks the same.

High school swallowed me whole.

Friends drifted.

Dreams shifted.

And eventually, I left town with the promise never to look back.

But life has a way of breaking promises.

Ten years later, I returned.

Not because I wanted to, but because sometimes the world closes in, and the heart retreats to the only place that ever felt safe.

I had lost my job.

The relationship I thought would last forever cracked in silence.

And inside me, a storm raged without rain.

I didn’t tell anyone I was coming. I just drove back to the town that had once felt too small for me. The houses were older, the roads more worn, but the air smelled like memories — and that was enough to make my chest ache.

As I walked down my old street, it felt even lonelier than before. Almost abandoned. Trees bent low, as if listening. Windows dark, shutters closed. Even the silence felt heavy.

And then I saw it.

The streetlamp.

Exactly where it had always stood — thinner, rustier, its bulb dim with age. It glowed like a dying ember fighting to stay alive.

For a moment, I wondered if it would recognize me.

I took a step toward it.

And the streetlamp flickered twice.

Just like it used to.

The breath left my lungs. Something warm and sharp filled my chest — a mixture of joy and sorrow, of remembering who I was and who I had become.

I whispered into the quiet, “You’re still here.”

The light brightened. Only for a moment.

But enough to answer.

I walked closer, stopping right beneath its warm, golden glow. The light wrapped around me like a gentle hand resting on my shoulder — steady, grounding, familiar.

My voice broke.

“I’m lost,” I said softly.

The kind of confession we hide from everyone, even ourselves.

The lamp hummed, the quiet electric heartbeat of something that refused to give up its duty.

“You waited for me,” I whispered.

And I meant it.

In a world where everything had changed, where people moved on, where promises slipped through fingers like sand — the streetlamp had remained.

Still shining.

Still loyal.

Still holding the path for someone who had wandered too far.

A soft breeze rustled the trees. My childhood home stood silent, its windows dark. My parents weren’t there anymore. The life I had known was long gone.

But in the tender glow of the lamp, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years:

I felt seen.

Maybe the streetlamp didn’t hold magic.

Maybe it didn’t truly wait.

But sometimes, the smallest lights carry the greatest meaning. Sometimes, a simple glow on a forgotten street can feel like forgiveness.

Or like hope.

I stayed there for a long time, leaning against the cool metal pole, letting the light soak into the cracks inside me. For the first time in months, the storm inside me quieted.

Eventually, dawn began to bloom across the horizon. The first rays of sunlight touched the street, and the lamp flickered softly — almost like a goodbye.

“I’ll come back,” I promised.

And for the first time in years, it felt like a promise I would keep.

Moral

Even the smallest lights — a streetlamp, a memory, a moment of kindness — can remain loyal when everything else falls apart.

Sometimes, the things we overlook are the ones that guide us home when we are lost.