The power went out on a Tuesday, three nights straight. I sat in the dark with a candle and a glass of tap water.
The college kids down the street cheered and played music on their phones. I could hear them from my porch.
I remembered my grandmother's piggy bank, the rubber stopper missing. She'd shake it and coins would fall out. She said, 'Save for a rainy day.'
The garden came in that week. Tomatoes split on the vine. I couldn't water them. The squash turned yellow and tough.
On the third night, I found a packet of seeds in a drawer. Zinnias. I'd bought them five years ago and never opened them.
I went out before dawn, before the power came back. I dug a row in the dark. My hands remembered the soil, even after sixty years of installing AC units.
The power came back at noon. I didn't care. I had seeds in the ground. That was something to begin with.