At bedtime, in the near dark, I ask my dead parents for help. Then I gather the dead grandparents, dead in-laws, dead great-greats into my personal flock. They’re just mist in the field, owls flying into the dusk, but the moment I name each one, they’re here. What can you do for me? I ask. The sun disappeared a long time ago. Please, I say.  Saying what I want isn’t like dropping a coin into a slot. I say, It’s not quite dire. I’m embarrassed to talk this way.  The same tender weather has lingered for weeks—days of sky and golden leaves—so unseasonable for fall. Inside it, I imagine wings descending, wings deflecting, wings closing over this scene, so far below, erasing me.