We'd lie in bed and watch the flame
as the kerosene lamp grew dimmer.
We'd fight over who'd pulled
too much of grandma's worn, patched quilt;
until Dad eased up the stairs
and reminded us tomorrow's school.

We knew we had to get up at six
and walk a half mile down
the old, dirt road to ride the bus.

We'd just lie there and talk.

As the room blackened
we'd say goodnight,
taking a final tug
at grandma's worn, patched quilt.

We'd awaken to the sun,
shining through the cracks in the ceiling.