I was a teenage light bulb

So much of my childhood I felt like an exposed light bulb. 

Up on the ceiling in a musty basement,

flickering

either not screwed in or not turned on,

or waiting for someone to pull the chain. 

But didn’t I pull it, way back then? I did! 
Didn’t I? 
Still ... this flickering feeling lingers. 

A couple of weeks ago my mother died, and she’s dead
she’s cremated, and ashes can’t pull chains, 
that's for sure. 

She isn’t going to pull it now. 

So, guess what? 

Yes, and I see the light 
and in the light, I see—the stairs up, 
out of the basement. 

I'm out of here.