We lasted almost three days in our cold, dark apartment. No electricity, of course. No heat, a surprise. And no cell phone service.
But last night, after a cold grey day, as the gloaming began, we all started to lose it. Our girl began crying -- I want the power back, I want the power back. I felt like crying, but bucked up. Then I decided we had to leave -- get to a hotel. Get somewhere warm, dry, safe, with lights, and electricity, and internet service.
There's something about the in-between spaces. Between the river and the land. Between the day and the night. Here, the river's edge, twelve hours before the storm landed.
We have a back-up phone -- an old copper wire non-electric phone (at heart I am a secret survivalist) -- so last evening, on the edge between day and night, I called a hotel.
And today we are at the hotel. We hope we can stay until the power comes back. We might not have a room for the whole time. Because of the Marathon. Don't ask this New Yorker what she thinks about diverting resources to the Marathon during a period of devastation.
Our last few days involved . . .
Boiling water for bathing and heating the apartment. Works for the former, not for the latter.
Reading lots of books.
And painting. Both our girl and I were painting.
We have come to know what it means to be on edge. Really at the edges.
We've taken up art therapy at Autism's Edges.