Under an old quilted blanket, starbursts of autumn colors,

We sat, listening to unembellished stories of the past

In the light of mismatched candles placed on flat surfaces,

Throwing occasional shadows to dance on the walls

With a cadence that matched the tempo of her voice

And swept us away to a time when water was fetched.

It was winter both inside and ...

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I think it was a blizzard,
But I can't remember.
It was cold.
I was just seven years old.
And I ran inside. 
To hide from the storm.
Thinking maybe I could get warm.

The water felt like ice,
But the sun was nice.
It was March. 
I can still hear the dirge.
And I ran inside.
I tried not to care.
Thinking maybe you'd be there.

The warmth was gone,
But I was alone.
It was done.
We...

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