Those Winter Sundays by Robert 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?
God bless you, Brother Rex. Thank you for this father’s day reflection.
It seems that fathers are so undervalued. I had such a good father–in fact almost every male in my life, including my husband, my son, my brothers-in-law, etc., have been outstanding men. I get very upset by all the bumbling, stupid fathers portrayed on TV. Good men need to be honored not ridiculed.