When the power goes out, lowering a dark canopy of silence over our thirteen acres, Ma Ingalls stirs within me. She lifts a hand to strike a match and draws faltering light from a stubbed and blackened candlewick. She pours a fresh supply of oil into the hurricane lamps and spreads light from room to room. She feeds her people, and draws them close, and blankets them in flannel. She chases earth's silence with the sounds of story.
When the power returns, and the rumbling of the refrigerator competes with Ma's voice, and the harshness of canned lights overshadows the flickering of candle flame, she withdraws to await the next storm.
Come back soon, Caroline.