Lightings

1881: She lights a candle whispering, "Wherever you are, may you know peace." Another is lit. "Wherever you are, may you know love." And a third wick catches fire. "Wherever you are, may prosperity and wisdom find you in equal measure; may your hand be stayed in anger, your heart remain open to healing and forgiveness." She sits in front of the fire and allows herself to drift away. "Wherever you are, may you be blessed in the ways you are open to such things - blessed beyond measure." 2021: The lights flicker, going off. "Honest to Pete," he says, annoyed; before he gets to the basement door to tell the fusebox a thing or two, a light comes on in the hallway. "Oh ... OH, it's happening!" she says (from the stairs, eyes wide). "Woah," he responds in a whisper, remembering. They wait. The kitchen's overhead light turns on. "Soooooo trippy," he sighs, and she nods at him in agreement. The lamp in the living room by the easy chair starts to glow and she moves them both into the room closer to the fire. "Big finish," she tells him, taking his arm. And the fire, which had been merely embers before, lights anew and begins to crackle. "Holy crap; gets me every year," he says, moved. "I wish we knew what the ghost was trying to tell us," she agrees and they stand there for a moment, feeling blessed.