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 outside of the apartment,

But the icy breathe of the North Wind beating on the door

 

Could not roar loud enough to drown out the warmth,

Which radiated from the tales being told by the woman

 

Who had experienced colder and harsher times than then,

When bread, butter, and milk were worth more than silk.

 

“Everything will be okay,” we were assured time and time again,

As if it were a segue between stories about schoolhouses and war

 

Or a whispered battle cry against the frightening storm.

Everything will be okay, warm, under the blanket of stories that night.