We awoke this morning to the see that the day the deeply gray kind well known to New Englanders this time of year. A day where the sky is stuffed with thick clouds that stretch far past the horizon, sifting the warmth from every sunbeam. As I took Evey for her morning walk, I saw the trees—a breath ago bursting with color—stabbing lifelessly into the still sky. Hardly less dull in the ghostly rays were the grass, wood chips, playground, and the once-stately brick schoolhouse. Days like this ring out that the reign of the sun is over. That now is the time of gray.

Of course we know the sun is there, it always is. Of course we know it’s still shining, it always does. Of course we know we’ll see more sun, we always have. We reason that it won’t last, but still all we feel is the gray.

And yet, this bleakness has an unexpected fertility. People—finding the mood unbearable—warmly the light in their homes as they would cool its air in the summer. Warmly lit windows speckle the neighborhood. Later in the day I walk to the hardware shop for a replacement bulb, as it happens. Light pours into the street from living rooms, shops, and pubs. Through the windows I grab glimpses of people talking, working, living. Warmly.

I write these words as I sit in my living room that night. The warm light bathes a house freshly garlanded by my wife. My sons are reading, playing the piano, or sleeping. The dog is asleep on the floor. I say let the skies be as gray as they might. Warmth comes from within.