The lamp was, if I remember right, bought by my mother at an antique fair a few years ago, right before she died. When lit up, the stained glass shade came to life with flowers and artistic swirls, in lovely shades of red, green, brown and black. These were but a few of the reasons that I loved that lamp.

The handle as my dad grasped it was vintage bronze that looked elegant, compared to the rest of the furniture in the living room. It was solid as well, as I remember the weight pulling on my arms as I helped move it into the space. It looked light as a feather in his hands, but then again, he was much stronger.

I watched as the patterns of the flowers from the shade cascaded across the walls, the shape of them blurred but the vibrant colours clear as day. They continued to shift, some growing larger while others shrank, until for a moment they paused, before reversing their path with speed, so quick I couldn’t follow.

Before I knew it, a sharp bang sounded to my left, the flowers wilting off the walls as shards of glass clattered next to me. I turned my head. The base of the lamp was embedded in the wall.