Gusts wake me every half hour.

The weekend before this storm the power blacked out. We walked the darkened streets, reveling in the quiet black that must be what it was like here before. In the cottage we lit candles and carried the brightest from room-to-room, restless, boiling water for tea over a butane camp stove. After a time the temperature dropped. We went to bed, and finally with no street lights reflecting from clouds there was complete darkness to sleep in.

Tonight was different though. The cottage glowed from within, as Daniel chopped onions, as I peeled apples, and T and B cuddled on the couch. Four people around my kitchen table. So much light, from our hearts, from the lightbulbs, from the cottage itself, a loving projection of this.