Stormlight Supper

 The rain came out of nowhere.

One minute, we were sweeping the garage. The next, thunder cracked so loud that my little cousin dropped the broom and screamed like she saw a ghost. Within minutes, the skies broke open like they had been waiting all week to cry.

We ran inside, laughing, soaked, and still holding cleaning supplies.

“Guess the garage is postponed,” I said, shaking water from my sleeves.

But Mom had other plans. “Then we clean the inside,” she declared, already grabbing a mop.

Somehow, that’s how the entire house got roped into a rainy-day scrub-down. Wet shoes came off at the door. Aunt Celia lit candles just in case, muttering about the old wires. Uncle Manny tried to sneak away to the couch but was caught and assigned to baseboard duty. Even Grandpa, who normally stayed glued to his recliner, started wiping the kitchen chairs with a rag, humming to himself.

It was chaotic. But it was also... kind of magical.

Then, just as Mia and I started organizing the spice cabinet, everything went black. The hum of the fridge stopped. The lights flicked off. The house sighed into silence.

“Well,” Grandpa said, lighting another candle. “Now we clean by candlelight.”

Instead of stopping, we kept going—laughing at how dramatic we looked carrying mops like torches. The power outage made everything feel older, softer. Shadows danced on the walls. The rain tapped on the windows like it was trying to get in and help.

And then came the smell of food.

“I’m not letting this day end without dinner,” Aunt Celia said. She lit the gas stove the old-school way and pulled together magic from leftovers: rice with lentils, grilled veggies in foil, and warm cornbread she’d baked earlier. I made a pitcher of lemon-mint water and served it in mason jars like we were running a rustic restaurant. Someone threw together a fruit salad with cinnamon. Grandpa claimed it healed heartbreak.

We all sat in the living room, surrounded by candles and the scent of citrus and soap. The house sparkled, not from electricity, but from effort. Everyone glowed a little—faces calm, hands tired, hearts full. No one complained about the dark.

At one point, my mom looked around and said, “We should lose power more often.”

We ate with our hands. We passed plates like offerings. We didn’t check our phones. I looked around and saw all the little things that don’t need light bulbs to shine: the warmth in Aunt Celia’s smile, the quiet strength in Grandpa’s posture, the way nobody rushed to fix their hair or hide their sweat.

It wasn’t the clean floors that made it beautiful. It was the realness. The laughter. The cornbread crumbs on the blanket. The scent of lemon and lentil. The understanding that family means showing up—rain or shine, light or no light.

As the rain slowed and the candles melted low, I thought to myself:

This isn’t just cleaning. This is connection.