9 PM. Josiah extinguishes the kerosene lamp. Last light in the house — out. Darkness. Absolute.
Sarah already in bed. Quilt (Rachel sewed it — that one, with 1,847 patches). Pillow (feather, from their own geese). Mattress (spring, 20 years — 20 more to go).
Josiah lies down. Wooden bed creaks (like 30 years). Doesn't fix it (used to it). Moses (the Third) jumps to the foot (like the First, like the Second). Crickets outside. Bessie snorts in the stall (once means all's well. Twice — something's wrong).
Sarah: 'Good night.' Josiah: 'Good night.' (38 years. Same words. Every evening. That's enough.)
Tomorrow: 4:50 AM. No alarm. Cows. Chickens. Bessie. Oats. Sunrise. Coffee. Bible. Work. Lunch. Work. Dinner. Sunset. Tea. Porch. Stars. Lamp. Bed. 'Good night.'
Same thing. Every day. 365 days. 30 years. And 30 more — God willing.
And that's good.