Mornings with Dad
We woke up to coffee and classical music in the mornings.
He would be up at dawn
puttering around the kitchen,
making pancakes, french toast, biscuits.
Or else just sitting in a sunbeam,
a new book in old hands.
I would lie there, still in a sliver of sleep, until
the smell of his second cup of coffee
and the music gradually growing clearer
drove me to get up and join in.
Now I'd give my arm for one of those mornings,
just the two of us,
with him always smiling, eyes crinkling,
ready to listen or to tell me stories.
True or fanciful in nature,
all I needed was your voice
and our Ohio adventures.
Burial mounds and Mom & Pop restaurants,
hiking, picnics, movies,
just driving through the country.
With you I could be nothing but content.
At twenty-five I still like to hold your hand,
and even with body broken and
my adventures over before they could start,
I feel content with my small hand
safely inside your big thick one.
Farmers hands, we say.
With you I'm still a happy little girl,
enjoying every second of her father's time.
He would be up at dawn
puttering around the kitchen,
making pancakes, french toast, biscuits.
Or else just sitting in a sunbeam,
a new book in old hands.
I would lie there, still in a sliver of sleep, until
the smell of his second cup of coffee
and the music gradually growing clearer
drove me to get up and join in.
Now I'd give my arm for one of those mornings,
just the two of us,
with him always smiling, eyes crinkling,
ready to listen or to tell me stories.
True or fanciful in nature,
all I needed was your voice
and our Ohio adventures.
Burial mounds and Mom & Pop restaurants,
hiking, picnics, movies,
just driving through the country.
With you I could be nothing but content.
At twenty-five I still like to hold your hand,
and even with body broken and
my adventures over before they could start,
I feel content with my small hand
safely inside your big thick one.
Farmers hands, we say.
With you I'm still a happy little girl,
enjoying every second of her father's time.