It’s a dark and stormy night in North Saint Paul, and I am alone in a guest bedroom. Sleeping by myself during weather like this would probably bother me if I hadn’t spent the majority of my childhood rereading A Wrinkle In Time. Our copy resided at my dad’s old house, where my sister and I slept on a foldout couch in a cozy, amber-lit basement. Every time it rained, I huddled under the pink comforter and read the first chapter, Paige snoozing next to me as thunder shook the yard.
These days, the worse the weather gets, the more I am comforted. I could pad out to the kitchen right now, and I’m pretty sure Charles Wallace would be sitting at the table in faded blue Dr. Dentons, warming some cocoa on the stove. A grey fluff of a kitten yawns luxuriously in the attic. A strange woman knocks at the door. Anything could happen, and everything will be all right.