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The Longest Winter

Snow had covered our valley since the first week of November. My name is Mira, and that winter I was eleven years old. The cold arrived earlier than anyone expected, and it refused to leave. When the river froze solid, Papa lost his job at the grain mill. Mama stretched every meal, counting the last potatoes as if they were coins. Outside, the wind carried snow across the fields in long white waves. Still, each evening we gathered close around the small iron stove. "We may have little," Papa said quietly, "but we still have one another."

The Thinning Woodpile

By the middle of January, our woodpile had shrunk to almost nothing. My younger brother, Sam, watched the shrinking flames with worried eyes. I pretended that I was not afraid, though the wind howled against the windows. Each night we wrapped ourselves in every blanket we owned and waited for morning. Mama's hands grew rough and red from hauling water and washing our clothes. Yet she hummed the old hymns while she worked, soft and steady as a clock. Somehow her quiet singing made the long darkness feel a little smaller.