My dad was born in 1929. His entire life, he said very little, at least in words. When it came to actions though, he spoke so, so loudly. I've been missing him all day.
WINTER SUNDAYS
Robert Hayden
and put on his clothes 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.
You can read the rest of the poem here.
3 comments:
My dad was born in 1926 and is still a quiet, stoic German. This poem spoke volumes of him. Thanks so much for sharing.
I had a silent dad (born in 1927(, too.
That last stanza really got me. All the times as a kid that I took my dad for granted...and then, just when I was getting to be enough of an adult to know him as an adult, too, he died of lung cancer. He still visits me in dreams sometimes. For that, I am thankful.
My dad, also born in the 1920s, is equally silent, except when he's teaching us to sing or play chess or laughing at the jokes told by little kids.
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