When the Lights Went Out

I was eight, maybe nine—

home with my sister and brother

when the power went out.

No thunder, no storm.

Just the soft gasp of everything stopping—

the fridge hum gone,

the TV blinked to black,

the house suddenly a stranger.

So I called you.

Not to say anything important.

Just to say something.

Anything.

Everything.

You answered like you were waiting for me.

Like love had a ringtone.

I told you the dog was scared,

the candles smelled like vanilla,

that my brother kept making shadow puppets

that looked nothing like dogs.

You laughed.

I remember that.

Like the wind chimes on your porch.

You stayed on the line,

through the hush,

through the boredom,

through the scared.

Until the lights blinked back on—

just like that—

as if nothing had ever gone missing.

You told me later

that was one of your favorite memories.

Me calling you in the dark.

But Grandma,

what I never said—

what I didn’t have the words for then—

is that it’s one of mine too.

Because that night,

I learned what love sounds like

when everything else is quiet.