It didn’t worry me when Aunty Joan started talking to the lamps, not like it worried my mother whose flustered hands pressed my spine towards the door.
We spoke about it later, her fingers wrapped in mine as she tried to convince me that there was something wrong about the way my Aunt shouldered life.
“Normal people don’t talk to inanimate objects Jessie. You can’t hold a conversation with something that isn’t living.”
I didn’t mention that the green lamp with orange trim was supposed to be Argus Vien, three times world boxing champion and a dab hand at checkers.