Three nights the whole town went dark. Not a single light from the mine shaft, not even the diner's neon clock.
On the second night I lit candles and looked around my trailer like I was seeing it for the first time. That old lamp in the corner, the one with the crooked shade.
You bought it at a yardsale the summer before you left. I remember because you made me drive you, and we almost hit a deer on the way back. The sticker's still on the base: $2. I never peeled it off.
The power came back on the third night, just as the pool opened for the season. Kids were screaming down at the rec center, and I stood in my kitchen with the lights blazing, holding that lamp.
I wanted to call you. Tell you I still had it. Tell you I finally understood why you needed to get out of this town.
But I didn't have your number anymore. So I just stood there, listening to the refrigerator hum, holding a two-dollar lamp like it was the only thing worth saving.