The front door to my parent’s house doesn’t creak like it used to. Now it’s the squeaking of my wet shoes and the sudden volume change in the rain that stirs life from within the darkness.

“Honey, is that you?” she asks from the living room.

“Yea, sorry I’m late,” I say closing the door, “took forever to finish reading the will.” I drop my dad’s old jacket over the closest chair. I walk across the hardwood floor by the light of the street lamp just outside and slump onto the couch next to her. “Why’s it so dark in here?”

“I don’t know,” she answers, “the rain, maybe. Or the power bill, one or the other.” She puts her hand in my lap.

“I know, I know,” I say, taking her hand and holding it. “We’ll make it though. We should get something out of this whole mess, something other than this old house anyway.” I stand up off the couch. “Besides, it’s just one night without power. It could actually be fun, like camping.”

We spend the next ten minutes fishing out everything that makes light without power from the house. Our open cell phones meet at the coffee table in the living room with three candles, two battery powered alarm clocks, and a glow in the dark lawn gnome.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“It was a present from my dad when I was like five. It’s cute isn’t it?” I pat it on its neon green hat. “I saw it glowing in the closet behind some of his old clothes.”

“Well it’s going right back in the closet after tonight,” she says, “so, now what?”

I lay down on the couch and she follows suit, her back to my front. The light from the table reaches just our faces, leaving our bodies dark, like lying next to a kerosene lamp in sleeping bags. The smell always got to me, but dad used to keep me occupied with stories of his childhood, stories of skipping school and chasing girls. I would drift to sleep with these visions, but it was always me in his place, jumping the fences and pushing mom into the mud patch.

“So, when should we expect something?” she asks.

“I don’t know. The whole thing’s a mess. You think family could come together over something like this.”

“Soon then, I hope? I don’t know how long I could stand this old house.”

“We’ll see,” I answer, “and it’s not that bad. There are a lot of memories here. It’s cozy.”

She fits completely inside me as her breathing slows into sleep. I feel like my dad must have, the way he used to hold me on the couch as we watched television until mom got mad at us and turned it off. The candles in front of us flicker before the alarm clocks and the gnome, shadows moving across our faces like those the old set used to cast. I’m starting to drift off to sleep when she asks a question by poking me in the ribs.

“If you could have one wish, what would it be?” Her head turns so her ear is closer to my mouth.

“I had a wish once,” I answer. “I wished time would stand still for a whole day, just one though, lest everything else become pointless.”

“Explain,” she says.

“Everyone gets a free day,” I say, “free to do whatever. Sleep, write, run, anything. You could clean your whole house, basement to baseboards, or even have a 24 hour sex marathon, just a day of what ifs.”

She laughs, the couch moving with her in tandem. “No, explain the pointless part.”

“I told my dad this wish when I was five. I said I wanted time to stand still for a whole year though, so I wouldn’t have to leave kindergarten and Mrs. Heather, but then Mrs. Heather died and I wished I could just be out of school all together. My dad grabbed me by the shoulders and looked me in the eye. He said that only cowards ran from problems.”

“I wanted a more current wish than that.” She laughs more, her face a dance of colors and shadows.

“My kindergarten teacher dying is funny to you?” I ask, nudging her toward the edge of the couch.

“No, it’s not that,” she says, still grinning as she grabs the side of it and holds fast. “Why did the wish change from a year to a day, though?”

“I don’t know. It just seemed more reasonable I guess.”
I stop pushing her and she settles back into place. We lace fingers at our sides and I close my eyes into her hair.

“Well, what’s your wish now?”

“The same thing,” I say, “more or less.”

The candles burn low and the gnome starts to lose its glow. Only the alarm clocks buzz light next to us now. I check their faces, green and red glowing back at me. Like the big Christmas lights from our old tree. Like where my dad had his first heart attack.

“I have to be up in a few hours,” I whisper into her ear. I wipe the sweat from my brow with my watch hand, scratching my forehead.

“Mmm,” she groans, “then I guess you’ll just have to take that free day today, catch up on some well deserved sleep.” She reaches up and pats my face before returning to her fetal-like pose.

“My wish come true, huh?”

“Well, you need it,” she answers. “We don’t want another episode like last time. You work too hard.”

I put my chin on top of her head and squeeze, holding her against the sofa.

My chest starts to hurt again.

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