The lights go out – another power outage. “Grab the candles,” Mom says, and I do. My younger brother and I raid every room to collect the tall candles and votives spaced around the house. I hurry from shelf to shelf gathering wax sticks in my arms and place them in the living room, a few candles in each corner except for a small red votive. That one I keep. It is the one I will take to the coffee table to use to read. I slide my book, Things Fall Apart, beside the candle holder, determined to finish the last three chapters, but lacking conviction. So the book remains closed. A sigh escapes my brother’s lips.

“This is boring,” he says. A drop of wax falls on my book.

“I know,” I say, but really, I am enjoying the stillness. I like to watch the candle burn and feel that life is simple. I like to look out the window into an immediate darkness unspoiled by harsh light. I cherish these silent moments when I feel as if I can live the way they lived, the people of the past – the Egyptians, the Pilgrims, the Greeks – anyone who ever lived to see the black color I’m seeing, anyone who lived to see a yellow flame and depended on it. I feel at one with a secret, primeval age. I’m convinced that night, in this unhampered state, is the closest a person can get to experiencing the past.

So, what was night really like for them? Night, as we know it now, is a mellow, tender thing compared to the impenetrable darkness that cloaked Earth’s first people. Even its beauty seemed unparalleled.

What did a farmer’s family do at night? Of course, the darkness must have brought them together, forced them into each other’s company as it has done to us tonight – fostered camaraderie in a time of fear and uncertainty. A fire probably blazed in a central room where the family gathered to talk and relax. Night was a time when men and women were liberated from work and socialized. They had no computers or TVs, and had to make do with books, religion, and conversation. At their bedside, they prayed to God, and felt a sense of security that they were out of the darkness and harm’s reach.

Nevertheless, to venture outside was sometimes necessary, and the threat of robbers, wolves, even the ethereal, was tangible. What emotions did these people feel? Did they witness a deep azure cloud creep across heaven? Catch a glimpse of the devil’s minions? What would it have been like to feel the night, heavy and damp against my back? Would it have taken me, smothered me with its clammy hands, isolated me? Or would those have been frightful dreams, and dreams only? Perhaps the night was grand, maybe a mixture of both beauty and peril.

I imagine a young girl, stepping outside her home and into a desert for some air. A cool, earthy smell would greet her. There’s a sky speckled with millions of stars – far more than a person could see today – and there’s the moon. It’s the largest object in the sky, the midnight sun that illuminates the world, the traveler’s torch. It inspires stories of uncertainty, stories of power. I imagine this girl marveling at the moon and stars. She’s entranced by this sight as divine as sparkling diamonds, and if she wanders too far, she needn’t worry, for the stars will lead her back home.

Bzzz! The lights return. Everyone cheers and abandons the room, happy that their period of solitude is over, everyone except me. I pull my candle closer, and stare into the night. The glory is gone; it has been dimmed by street lamps, electric signs, TVs, and all other manner of artificial light. But in those moments, when every light in every house was snuffed, people may have had a taste of the old world. They may finally have touched upon the fear, the admiration, and the reverence that our predecessors felt for the night.