a poem inspired by Robert Hayden's poem, "Winter Sundays"
On winter weekday mornings, my father woke early, walked outside into the freeze, and defrosted my iced-over car so that I wouldn't have to idle in the cold before I drove twenty-two miles to high school. He'd also leave me a travel mug filled with black coffee. I doubt that I thanked my father enough for that kindness. I failed to see that my father's early morning routine was a love song.
Read Robert Hayden’s poem here.
The anniversary of my dad's death is tomorrow, and I've been thinking to myself: how, exactly, did I know him beyond his human circumstances? He had a spirit, just like the rest of us. What did I know of his more eternal identity, the one that just took residence in skin and bone for a while?
By his actions, of course.
Thanks for making that so clear.