Sparks

Sparks

“Bedtime girls,” mother announces.

Up the steep, dark steps we climb to our bedroom. Ours is the tiny bedroom at the top of the stairs in an old farm house. The ceiling matches the steep angle of the roofline. This is no problem for two little girls, but would cause adults to duck their heads when standing anywhere other than the centerline of the room.

There’s a single window centered under the peak of the ceiling. It is covered inside and out by a thick layer of frost. What little light comes in from outside is diffused and is mostly obscured by the mirror mounted to the child sized dresser.

We giggle as we change into matching flannel nightgowns that our mother sewed for us. We each grab our hair brush, and one of us turns off the tiny light to the room.

In the darkness, we face the mirror, prepared for the nightly ritual of 50 strokes of the hair brush.

With each stroke we count and laugh. “One, two, three…” In the cold, dry winter air, each stroke releases static and produces sparks.

Blue, yellow, and orange sparks flash in the dark. Some pop loudly, and we laugh throughout the whole light show.

When the show is over, still laughing, we climb into our tiny cold beds.

“Now I lay me down to sleep” It’s so cold.

“Pray the Lord my soul to keep” I start to shiver.

“If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take”

We finish by asking for the safety and safe return of our uncles at war.

With my prayers done, I kick my legs like a competitive swimmer to warm up the bed. My sister joins me and we laugh some more as we see who can kick the fastest and longest.

Now warm and tired, we lie still in our beds, and listen for the whistle from the night train before we fall asleep.

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