There isn't a reason for candle light

I don't really know about the flow of things. 

I have alot of thoughts about it, but there's no way to be really sure. 

I'm a damsel in the dark. You can't see my face, but you can hear me tiptoeing around on wooden floors. 

The attic is the warmest place in the winter - the higher up you are the further you are from the snow, or so my mother used to tell me. There's snow on the roof of course, but when we'd bring it to her attention she'd tell us to go shovel it off the roof. No one really cared enough to get up there and do it, so we made our beds in the attic, allthesame. I used to quilt with my sisters on those long winter nights. We'd crouch by the woodstove together and sing quietly with our needles working slowly, slowly, so we'd not finish a whole quilt in two nights. It was our only passtime, and it was what kept us from going crazy most of the time. 

My father talks about winters in Europe, and how he never saw so much snow until he came here. He sits in this old chair he brought with him off the ship,  and he smokes his tobacco in a pipe he won in a bar fight back in New York, before he'd even met my mother, and he seems so thoughtful and content. My sisters and I were always so restless, but my father could just sit in his chair, smoking his tobacco for hours and hours and hours. 

Most people seem to think of their mothers as busy and somewhat neurotic. Or atleast, strict and rule enforcing. But my mother never was. She was dreamy and peaceful, more like a girl than like a woman with three daughters all nearly grown. She spent most of her time in the kitchen during the winter, and most of her time in the garden during the sumer, and she was always humming, no matter what she was doing. Sometimes on warm evenings my sisters and I would catch her sneaking out to wade in the stream by our house in the moonlight. 

It hit my father hard when she died.