Today she's eight. World, just wait.

On Monday, school was canceled because of the widespread power outages.  At 6:30 a.m., our house is in its 26th hour without electricity.  I have to wake up to go to work.  I light a candle to find my clothes. 

Rafi hops out of bed.  Her sister is asleep.  Her father, having been up half the night feeding the wood stove, is snoring. 

On ordinary school mornings it is a chore to drag her out of bed by 7:35.   She has only caught the 7:45 bus that stops in front of our house once since September.  What is she going to do with no electricity?  Wait for the sun to get brighter then read a book.  Maybe practice her ukulele.  I can only hope.

I give her cereal for breakfast, with milk we've been keeping in a bucket of snow.

Isn't it strange, she says, how I always wake up when I don't have to wake up.  When I do have to wake up, I never can.

Uh huh, I agree. 

I wonder why I'm not more sleepy, she says.  Then she grins, for she has figured out an explanation: 
It must be that I get lots of rest on days when I'm supposed to wake up, so that I don't need the sleep now.