Care of Light: The Ordered Life in a Disordered World

by Roger B. Rueda

There is a certain tyranny in order. This is not an opinion; it is a fact confirmed by history, by law, and now, by poetry. Gemino H. Abad’s Care of Light is not just a poem—it is a quiet rebellion against the inexorable decay of time, an analysis of the human struggle against entropy. It is about a professor who once ruled the world of her books and students with an iron sense of order, but who, in the twilight of her life, has become subject to the very forces she sought to control. If that is not poetic justice, I do not know what is.

 

Let us examine the central character. This professor is the embodiment of discipline, demanding the same unyielding rigor from others that she mercilessly inflicted upon herself. She is the kind of educator who could make the tardy tremble and the half-baked scholar wish for the sweet release of oblivion. But even the most formidable figures are not exempt from time’s ruthless march. The books she once guarded with an iron will now lie forgotten, buried beneath the dust of indifference. The house, once her bastion of order, is empty. She has been exiled from her own dominion, reduced to dependence—a fate that no self-respecting intellectual would wish upon themselves.

 

Now, let us consider the persona—the faithful lamplighter. He does not just turn lights on and off; he preserves the semblance of order that the professor so desperately clings to. The act is mechanical, yet profound, because it is not about mere obedience. It is about ensuring that, at least within the four walls of that house, the professor’s will prevails. If that is not loyalty, then what is?

 

And yet, beyond the locked gates of her former kingdom, the world continues in its relentless march forward. The street lamps continue their indifferent glow. The crickets go on whirring. The sun will rise again, as it always does. The universe does not wait for anyone—not for the young, not for the old, and certainly not for a retired professor who once thought she could impose logic upon life itself.

 

What is the lesson here? It is that control is an illusion. No matter how much we impose order upon our lives—whether through routines, rules, or sheer force of will—disorder will eventually creep in. Age will claim even the most formidable of minds. Books will gather dust. Streets will remain indifferent to the footsteps that once marched upon them with purpose.

 

In the end, the world moves on, whether we like it or not. And so we must ask ourselves: what is the point of all our strivings? Do we resign ourselves to the inevitability of decline, or do we, like the dutiful lamplighter, maintain the rituals of meaning in a world that so often forgets? That is the real question.

 

And as for the professor—perhaps she already knew the answer. Perhaps, in her forced exile, she has come to accept what she could not teach: that some orders are meant to last, and others are meant to fade.

 

But one thing is certain—when the lamplighter returns the next evening, flicking the switches, securing the locks, keeping the ghosts of discipline alive—he will not just be following instructions. He will be making a statement: that though time may erode all things, there are still those who will stand guard against the night.