Recalling Robert Hayden’s classic poem “Those Winter Sundays,” Philip Clark presents his own remembrance of a father and his sacrifices.
—
The Readers (after Robert Hayden)
I still hear him turning pages. Every morning I would waken to that sound in the dark blue hour.
The time in the mornings, so brief for him, before I became his work instead of all the work he
still had to do. As I dressed in the cold, I would hear him preparing our food; hear the butter skate
the grill and the old bread. With sleep still on me, I would come into the room to see him working
slowly, with no urgency except to make things last before I left for school. He would quietly place
our cups on the table in the adamantly warming room. Our eyes would seldom meet. They never
needed to. We have glanced at those mirrors before. The house had more to say than we did; it
hissed with its winds, and split its linoleum underfoot. My father and I would eat; his interrupted
book there on the table. What book was he reading this time? And where was he in it, when I
interrupted his dream? I wish I had asked him so many things. How long does it take to read a book
when you have a son?
***
Philip Clark has contributed before. Read his wonderful poem “Lacrimosa” and his important essay “Coming to Poetry, Age 58.”
Interested in submitting poetry to The Good Men Project? Check out our guidelines.
Like The Good Men Project on Facebook
Photo by Daniel Horacio Agostini /Flickr
Wonderful work, Philip. It captures so much in so few words.