When we can't go outside because because the flakes have built up so high that the electric is out, the heater isn't working, and the roads aren't anywhere near clear enough to make the two mile journey to the main road, we stay in. We stay inside and pile on one more sweater than is really comfortable to wear, hoping that one more layer might keep out the chill that my mind has convinced me will come and eat us in the night. I claim that the dog, too, is at risk. While everyone else seems to think her fur and proximity to us will keep her warm enough, I'm more content to wrap her in as many extra blankets as she will let me before her eyes beg my indifference to her woes.
The generator can't power much, but we have one heater that we plug in, hoping to warm the living room, where we will, for the first time, be living for a night. The open layout of the first floor means the kitchen flows into the dining area and on into the living room. Normally, the flow of laughing at holidays, smells in the morning, yelling in times of family distress is welcomed, but today we break out the duct tape and sheets.
Building a thin barrier between ourselves, in our new living space, in our old living room, we duct tape sheets around the opening between us and the colder parts of the house. The heat might seep out more slowly this way, we hope, and as we snuggle into dreams (me, next to the heater, with the blanket-bundled dog at me side), I take a deep breath as an attempt to hold a bit more of the warmth inside me.
And when I wake up, the dog isn't next to me. Her blankets have been shed, leaving a pile of warm cloth on the floor. I blink a few times before feeling the sweat dripping down my face. The heat is back. The lights are on. The generator is still running. And our new living has already escaped us.
This is a way-too-dramatized telling of how my family and I camped out in the living room one night after a blizzard (the infamous Snow-pocalypse) hit my town, snowed us in, and left us without power. I had hoped we could have this kind of camp out for a few more days. While we were still snowed in for a bit longer, the power being back ruined the feel of solidarity in disaster that I was kind of loving. Can't say I wasn't thankful to make a real, hot dinner, though!
This was done as a response to @greggr's prompt: http://www.vingle.net/posts/684652-Winter-Writing-A-Memory