We are getting ready for the painter to come tomorrow. He’s the same painter we have used since we’ve lived in this house and he’ll be repainting some of the rooms he first painted when we moved in, more than a decade ago. It’s time for a refresh and I have spent a bit of the last two days taking things off the walls and moving items out of the way.

One of the areas we’re asking him to repaint is the mantel and fireplace front in the living room. As a result, I emptied the mantel last night. It was filled with some of our favorite photos, my husband dancing with his mom, some of our children’s wedding photos, all treasured moments. Several favorite menorahs from my ever growing collection and a beautiful wooden bud vase, made by my son, were all moved into a room that won’t be painted.

And then I moved my mother’s lamps. Even though they were in my parent’s home until they had both passed away, they have always been my mother’s lamps to me. The two hurricanes lamps, with brass bases and glass etched globes, sat on the credenza in their dining room. The massive dark oak furniture, with intricate carvings, always made me think of furnishing you would find in a castle and it was imposing in their suburban home.

When my father died, 9 years after mom, we had a house to clean out and sell. With two small children and a full time job, it was hard for me to wrap my head around it. And my brother had his own life and responsibilities. So we decided to donate everything and that is what we did. The only things I kept from the house were my mother’s crystal glassware and those two hurricanes lamps.

The lamps have seen better days. Despite my polishing, the bases are a little tarnished and the cardboard lamp bottoms have long ago given up their adhesive. I carefully stand the lamps on them but they are no longer connected. One of the glass globes has a broken piece on one side where it fits into the base and, while you cannot see it when the lamp is together, it makes the globe a bit less steady. Yet, when I flip the small switches, they light up and their candle bulbs bring the same soft light that I remember.

Every time we have moved, only I can touch those lamps. I pack them myself and I put them, with great care, in my car for transport. Their placement in a new home is more important to me than where the sofa goes or how to position the dining room table. These lamps mean home to me.

I had a conversation with someone recently about what you would save if you had to evacuate your home and only had a matter of minutes. And while I know the right answer was likely important documents and items of value, the first thing that came to mind was the answer I knew to be true—my mother’s lamps.

It is a funny thing to realize that the majority of my life has been spent without my mother. Her death, when I was 25, meant that my children grew up without her. It meant that I lost my unshakeable support system and sounding board and that the world lost a human being who radiated love and positivity.

Her lamps, for me, symbolize her light and the continuity of her spirit and her presence. I miss her every day and I hold her close in my full heart.