I sit contentedly, legs curled under me, my hands wrapped around my
still-warm teacup. My fingers do not see the dull blue and mud-grey colors of the clay, but simply feel the cup's smooth, comforting solidarity. Next to me, My mother sits reading, sipping her peach tea and murmuring absently in answer to my comments. Through the windows and the trees I see the lilac clouds congregating as the sun sets in pale gold. Though no wind ruffles the lake, I feel the coolness of the evening air upon my legs. Amidst a few disorderly, bedtime bird-calls, I hear the three-noted song of the white-throated sparrow. I can see mosquitoes in the diminishing light outside, vainly flying against the screen of the bay window. Unfortunately several of the annoying creatures made it inside during the course of the day.

The lamp with the red-and-white checked shade lights the room with a
cheerful glow. It gives funny shadows to the wreaths, old photographs, and carvings on the varnished plank walls. A few lamps hang from log beams running lengthwise through the cabin. Behind the box of extra firewood hangs the curiously painted bellows, and next to it the old iron stove sits--unused in summer--with a pitcher of wildflowers atop it. My sisters picked the daisies and buttercups it holds earlier in the day.

Through the kitchen from the girls' bedroom comes my father's voice, reading the bedtime story--a book by James Herriot of his veterinary escapades in Scotland. The citronella candle burning to ward off mosquitoes flickers on the yellowed wood of the walls and ceiling.

After the bedtime story, two little girls come scuttling through the room in their nightgowns. Slipping on their sandals, they hurry out into the cool, buggy air toward the outhouse. I hear the water splash from the pump onto the mossy stones as they wash their hands, shivering with the icy water.

Banging the door and kicking off her footwear in the back porch, the smallest one, Rachel, comes to say goodnight. Running up to our grandmother in the rocking chair, she hugs her and kisses the bony cheek. Mamaw smiles and her silky, fragile skin wrinkles into familiar folds. Next Rachel performs her nightly ritual on
Aunt Esther--kisses, hugs, "goodnight"--and then on me. "Goodnight Baby." I smile as the little girl runs off to bed. Mama follows to tuck them in and kiss each one, staying a little while by each bed as the girls whisper confidingly to her. Then Daddy prays with them and blows out the candle. He, too, must make the bedside rounds. Calls of "Goodnight! I love you!" follow him out the door.

The girls will fall asleep soon. I must get to bed before then so as not to waken them when I climb up the bunk-bed. Sighing a satisfied sigh, I return my teacup to the kitchen, absent-mindedly recalling the familiar little poem my mom recites each night...

Goodnight! Goodnight!
Far flies the light;
but still God's love
will flame above,
making all bright.
Goodnight! Goodnight!