How many of us truly appreciate our parents while we have them? I did, and yet only to the extent a young girl is capable, and only to the view I could see with my eyes. Who knows what their eyes had seen?
Those Winter Sundays
Sundays, too, my father got up early
And put his clothes on in the blueback 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,
he 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?