when the power went out

the house got very cold, and I got sad, and I couldn't sleep,
and I worried about the coldness of my daughter's head and the lack of fat and fur on our little dog
and about how we would all get through the second night when the warmest room in the house was at 41 degrees and falling
and eventually, we took the dog and the child and got the hell out.
But that isn't what I want to write about.
I want to write about before that,
about how our house, which in another century
had been comprised of one large room with a fireplace,
returned to its origins and we moved everything important
(not very much)
into that one room and we settled on the floor in front of a smoky fire
and huddled under blankets
and the dark came early and candles burned on the mantle
and three people and a dog kept each other warm
and my child's face became even dewier and curvier and much too beautiful in the firelight and the world narrowed agreeably down to that makeshift bed, my three beloved beings, and a lukewarm cup of tea made in a thirty-two-year old fondue pot.
For a few hours, it was enough. It was a feast.