There are things about my grandparents that I'll never forget because I want someday to do them for my (albeit nonexistent) kids.
One of those things was, they always left the light on over the stove when they went to bed at night. Something about that one light amplified the stickiness of the linoleum floor, every step attached and detached in the most meticulous manner.
I killed the lights in my kitchen (miles and miles from their kitchen) tonight, and for whatever reason I'd forgotten about the light over the stove. It stayed on, and any anxiety I might have felt about about anything at all just melted away and puddled at my feet.
With the erratic comings and goings of me and my roommates, the all-hours talks and cartoon binges and caged cigarettes, I like the idea of coming home to a house where there's always a light on over the stove. I'm going to like flicking it on every night. Just, you know, in case.