Those Winter Sundays by Robert E. Hayden
Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?
Posts
2 comments:
No one has commented on this poem so I will. It really hit home when I first saw it. I wish I could say it reminded me of my father (sadly, only in contrast). I used to think it was no big deal to have an absentee father, but as I've grown older I lament the loss. To all the dads out there, do your thing. Even if you don't get the gratitude you deserve, your acts will have an impact and be remembered.
Big D, I'm glad you reposted this. I, too, have come to realize the different ways dads can demonstrate love. Although I wish mine were a little less militaristic, I finally appreciate the huge sacrifices he's made for us-his immediate family, his siblings and the horde aka my cousins. -
Post a Comment