Waiting for the Last Gasp – Adam Overland

I’ve always struggled with what being an adult means. In many ways I still feel like the same person I was more than 27 years ago, when I was technically not an adult. Sure, I’m a little wiser now, a little less reckless, and there are about 60 more pounds of me, but I’m basically still me, so when and where, exactly, did the transition happen? 

I believe it may have just occurred, when some solar lights I ordered off of Amazon arrived the other day and I found myself excited to install them in my yard. As I was tearing open the box like it was Christmas morning, despite knowing what was inside, I had a moment’s pause where I realized that my younger self, watching me now, would have at that moment considered me a complete and total loser. 

For some people I imagine this realization comes sooner. Becoming financially independent is a good marker of adulthood; if you can survive on your own paycheck, that’s definitely adultish. Having and then taking care of your own child seems like an even surer sign; once a tiny human depends entirely upon you for living, there’s truly no turning back the clock. But getting excited about solar lights—there’s no mistaking that for child’s play. 

The thing is, a few years ago I purchased solar lights and I didn’t experience this feeling, which leads me to believe that my adulthood really has only recently arrived. Of course, the old solar lights were the cheapest I could find. I wasn’t fully committed to the idea or the cost. But now just two of the six solar lights I purchased in my younger days at age 42 still work. 

These new solar lights are brighter, better designed, higher quality, and most importantly, more expensive. Furthermore, they actually provide enough light to navigate one’s backyard at midnight, should the need arise. I can imagine that if I have people over, they might comment on them. “Where did you get those?” they will ask. “Oh, these?” I will say with the nonchalance of someone who hasn’t been anticipating this moment all evening. “I found them online. They were quite expensive as far as solar lighting goes.” 

Unfortunately, I installed the lights toward the evening, so they didn’t have time to charge for our first night together. All the next day, I thought about them, charging their batteries in the sun, awaiting my evening’s entertainment. How brightly would they shine? What would they illuminate besides the diminishing nature of who and what I have become? 

I placed four of the lights out front for passersby to admire, the remaining two in the back. The next day as the sun set I checked on them, opening the front door and peeking out as they began to blaze, illuminating this walkway that is mine, these plants, too, this home with its small plot of land that is also mine, with a garden large enough to sustain a local rabbit and squirrel population that is intent on its destruction. 

More than halfway through my life now, I have harnessed the power of the sun to illuminate a tiny area of Earth on the darkest of nights, a modern day Helios, the Greek god of light. Walking in my yard late last evening after the neighborhood had all gone to bed, I looked up at the night sky, its infinite stars shining bright. But not as bright as my six solar lights. Not that bright.