On Saturday, February 21st, I awoke to a power outage. I decided that the prudent thing to do was to go back to sleep; my favorite coping mechanism. I awoke again one-half hour later and stumbled into the kitchen croaking, “Coffee?”
“No coffee,” replied my stoic husband, Fred. “The power is out.” He, of course, had been up for two hours already wandering from room to room and window to window verifying that the power was out in the entire neighborhood. We stood side by side staring at the ice encrusted window screen at the kitchen window.
“There’s no coffee?” I persisted.
“No.” We stared at the crystalized fairy wonderland beyond the window. “Crap,” I muttered. We’re from Michigan. Ice storms are the worst. We are way past marveling at the wispy beauty of ice. We lasted four nights and five days in the alien landscape that used to be our house repeating the same three words to one another, “Where’s the flashlight?” We spent the next three nights at a motel one town over.
I have lived in this house for ten years. Suddenly it was like I was on the moon and there were shadowy craters everywhere. It has been one week since we returned to our powered-up house. I didn’t trust it. It is my usual routine to go to bed, not go to sleep, get up and wander about my house for about an hour or so before returning to bed. Last night is the first night I resumed my wandering. Opening the bedroom door I grew weepy noting that the nightlights which align the hallway like a little mouse runway were all aglow. I moved through room to room turning on and off the lights, wrote for a little while, had a snack, and went back to bed.
I know this place again. This is my house. Fred promised to buy a generator.