The power went out often between winter and spring.

Each time, we children looked forward to the oil lamp
taken down and put to use with its red kerosene—
jewel-toned, so beautiful.

Hurricane glass over the top of the wick,
to keep the air from blowing it out.

I loved to watch my father adjust the flame’s strength.
The familiar scent of the lamp oil,
holy to me.

One of the few times of quiet
living in a small trailer home
with a large family.

We’d read scripture,
or Father would tell us his thoughts
on the patients he cared for—
a different sort, fringe-of-society types.

We loved his stories,
sitting around all together,
listening intently in the dark—
that single light between us all,
glowing warmth into the rapidly cooling space.

When it was time for bed,
I’d feel a tremor and a shiver
when Father blew out the lamp
and all was swept in darkness.

I’d gratefully crawl into bed,
pulling the quilt his mother—
my grandmother—had made for me
up to my ears.

Sleep always came quick
on such nights.

I learned there are different ways
to bring warmth in
when there is no light.

Storytelling—
my favorite.

© 2025 Raven | Jasmine on the Grave. All rights reserved.