A moment of silence. It was the first week of school. The kids worked on the kitchen table with their parents. All morning there was the murmur of conferences and shuffle of papers. An occasional laugh, the scraping of a chair as someone stretches, the constant scratching of a pencil on paper, and the staccato tap-tap of typing. After lunch, the rain started, the soft whoosh and pitter-patter filling the space between sounds.

Then, late in the afternoon, the lights went out, the internet connection dropped, and the small sounds faded. We closed their books and laptops, leaving work for another day. Dad made a phone call, and Mom started a card game. Flashlights illuminated our laughing faces. The game finishes and we settle on the couches. Conversation lapsed. Some read books or stare into the distance. Dad brings out his guitar and strummed a soft melody. We waited.

When the lights turn back on, Mom leaves to call on the neighbors, we kids retreat for a snack or favorite corner. Dad put the guitar away. The rain stopped. But there had been a silence in the soft music and dim light that went unmatched in beauty and wholesomeness, even as we drifted to sleep.