Power Failure
by Grace Sanchez MacCall | From Issue One (Fall 2025)
The dead in her family communicate through the natural elements, the motion of air and gases, and electrical currents: cold and sudden gusts of breeze, blinking or extinguished lights, malfunctioning small appliances. Her Lola from Dad’s side prefers a sudden cold blast followed by unexplained wafts of her signature perfume in the most unexpected times; Lolo, on the other hand, prefers percussive signs like slammed doors and creaky stairs. Her Tita Linda, oh she’s a creative one. Sometimes, she triggers security alarms. Other times, she nudges family pictures and moves furniture when there are no witnesses.
Her family is not good at communicating in the world of the living. They don’t say what they mean. Instead of saying I love you, they say I made you this pork adobo. Instead of saying I was worried about you, they say You are a terrible daughter, how dare you stay out late. Instead of saying we are proud of you, they say nothing. And then there are unspoken rules about topics they are either not supposed to mention at all or at least only talk about sotto voce: bad luck subjects like illness and death, facial hair on the older ladies’ upper lips, Tito Jose’s new young wife with the same first name as his ex-wife.
Her non-Filipino husband created a flow chart that illustrated who to talk to, about what, and under what circumstances, so he can understand her family dynamics. There were no direct lines, only circuitous connections. To say something to Cousin Angie, talk to her Ate Tina who could broach the subject at the right time. And of course, Nanay, Mom’s mom, is the nexus. She’s the key to getting the gossip about everyone in the complex network of extended family that is spread across four continents. Another curious pattern: there are hardly any lines from the men. I guess it is a given that men do not talk about family or feelings. Her husband was relieved to know his only role during family gatherings is to compliment the cooks and to eat too much before retiring with the men to the living room to watch sports on TV.
Just like tonight’s gathering. Her husband and the other men are outside smoking cigarettes and drinking cervesas while the women have their heads bowed in fervent prayer in this marathon novena of Hail Marys in her bedroom. All she can do is stand there fading into the walls trying not to make the family cat shriek during this solemn event. She wishes she could reach out to tell her Mom she loved her – it’s difficult to watch her crumpled in grief like this. She tried to will a moth to land on her mother’s blouse, but the insect merely fluttered around and then headed for a nearby lamp. If only she could figure out how to make the lights flicker, a feat she’s been attempting since her death 40 days ago.
Grace Sanchez MacCall (she/her) is a founding member of the Eastwood Writers Collective in Toronto. Manila was home, then Calgary, then Vancouver before her move to Toronto where she now lives and writes.