The light starts going out in the attic. There was never meant to be a light up there in the first place. The sun coming in through the window would suffice. Nevertheless, there is a single bulb and it is now flickering. Maybe the moon can come through so we won't need candles. I'm packing extra matches just in case.
The second floor is a collection of antique lamps passed down from dead relatives who were once alive and read scriptures and recipes by this light. Both are extinguished. What good is a lamp if it's merely dusty decoration?
The first floor is well-traveled. Hallways are hideaways, doorways are destinations. You've been a host here before, often a guest, occasionally a stranger. You don't even stop to think about the florescent lights because you are too panicked about whatever is overcooked in the oven. What a blessing the bulb burned out; you can't see the burnt, inedible mess.
Nobody goes down into the basement anymore. It's inhabited by dusty canned peaches and unused Christmas wrapping paper. Why even bother carrying a torch?
The bones of this home can finally sink into a sleep. We had dreams, we had dreams.