We live on a
hill, surrounded by rolling and dipping hills and a tree-fringe and a hedge of
blue mountains on the skyline. It had been raining gray skies for the last
three days, and when the snow came, it was so quick it looked like streams of
white cotton. It was only an hour before the ground was coated, invisible
beneath a pale shroud.
On a less poetic
note, we were in the middle of supper when the lights went out. They flickered
again, then were gone for good. My dad was full of dark predictions. It could
be three or four days. We had to ration the water. No baths! My siblings were
happy about that part. Don’t open the freezer. Light the woodstove. 75,000
people are out of power in Virginia…this could be a week.
Several hours
later, after all lights had died, we became fire-worshippers, like all campers at
mealtimes. It’s hypnotic, especially in the dark, watching the wavering flames,
like spirits, the burning embers, like live dragons, and the coal black
silhouettes of wood succumbing, crumbling to ash. By the light of candles, I
read O. Henry and Father Brown short stories out loud, and my voice rejected
the silent dark.
Normally, we
would’ve been watching a murder mystery, but we were rationing power. On most
nights, I’d have been thinking about whatever had happened on the internet
during the day, or what was going on in The Outside World, or whatever movie I
was interested in (probably the next Hobbit film) – instead, I wasn’t really thinking about anything. Just the
prospect of staying at home for the next week, rationing, survival. It was
tremendously romantic. And I wasn’t worried.
Unfortunately, destiny
wasn’t being kind to romance, and by some miracle our lights blinked on the
next day. We were probably some of the first to get it, despite the fact that
we live miles from civilization. No doubt the whole thing would’ve lost its
glamor in a few days, as quickly as gleaming snow turns to limpid slush, but
part of me was still disappointed. The one night made me really understand how
precious light was, in the days before light-bulbs, and how peaceful a world of
empty time could be. The writer in me would not be vanquished – the instant I
got on my computer, I tried to capture the feeling of going back to the rustic
past.
January, 2013
Amid cries of
Invincibility
against the
pregnant sky
the answer falls
fast
and silently
angry
against
the glass.
We hide like
gypsies around the flame
and choose to
speak the inked symbols instead
of following
moving pictures alone.
We are guarded by
a fire-circle,
ancient,
mysterious, almost
pagan
in its
affirmation of our capture.
Our invincibility
is broken
we are outside of
time
and
full of time
and time spent
well—
Maybe it’s
better.
Longish
P.S. Kudos to my sister, Sarah, for the pictures.
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