Sundays, too, my father got up early
My father gets up early too. Does all kinds of things.
The older I get, the more I recognize him
In the lines of this, one of my all time favorite poems.
Doing his best to care for his family.
Coping the best he can with the circumstances
that are beyond anything
He ever recognized, bargained for.
Children, wife, life -
All battered, changed, broken.
And still, my father gets up early. Makes
Breakfast for his wife, gets her up,
Makes her take her pills, eat, take more pills.
She’s starting to get cross, to resist. He fusses,
Worries over her.
He worries for his kids-
Offers what help he knows how to give.
This is beyond what he was prepared for,
This has never been his role in life,
Caretaker.
And he’s still holding on, still trying to
Take care of all of us. Hangs on to routine,
Every day the same again.
What did I know, what did I know
Of love’s austere and lonely offices?
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