Is it possible to be awakened by silence? I'm lying in bed in the wee hours when the silence suddenly feels frighteningly deeper and the darkness darker, and I realize that I hear absolutely nothing and see no trace of a glow from the phone or the alarm clock or anything.
The power is off. No light, no heat, no water, no fridge, and soon all the battery backups will fade and I'll have no contact with the outside world--because all our recent rain has drenched the phone lines with thick static.
I fumble through the dark house for the flashlight on top of the fridge, find some candles and light them, and then start checking out the situation: 4 a.m. and 30 degrees outside, with a light coating of snow on the ground. The sun will come up in a few hours and forecasts are calling for warming temps today, so it's unlikely that the pipes will freeze. Still, a few candles aren't going to keep the house from getting unbearably cold. Could I manage to light a fire in the fireplace? I would have to move a dozen unwieldy houseplants out of the way and haul in some wood and get it burning. There's the challenge. We all know that fire-starting is not my forte, and my husband is in Jackson until Thursday.
As I hunker under a blanket in the candlelight, I realize that the silence is not absolute: the wind outside is blustery, with sudden gusts rattling the windows and shaking the trees. I'm thankful for a sturdy roof and sufficient insulation--and a reliable car that can take me away to find warmth if the outage lasts. If I weren't home alone in the bleak midwinter, the candlelight could feel romantic, but as the wind gusts outside, those flickering flames provide a wan defense against the darkness.
And then just as I've settled in for the duration, the power flicks back on: the furnace comes to life, nightlights come on, and the microwave starts blinking 12:00. Relief! Back to normal--but I think I'll leave the candles burning a little longer while I sit here and listen to the howling wind.
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