Winter 1958
written by: Sylvia Chinn
Waking up – jeez it’s so cold,
head popping out of hairy blankets,
scratch at sleepy skin, weighted
down by coats. Condensation
drip off steel window frames. Dad
singing in the kitchen, I Did it My Way,
the only song he knew. And in between
the notes, shouting Rise and Shine!
If you missed that rasher of crispy bacon,
fried bread cooked to perfection,
topped with fried egg and dad’s own
recipe of mushy tomatoes, peeled,
diluted with water, mashed just three
tomatoes between six, added seasoning
and gravy browning, you’d be sorry
and hungry.
White mist exhale, not wanting to
miss out. Gently pad feet on cold floor,
no slippers and socks drying ready
for Sunday School. Dad’s polished shoes
saw our faces reflected. We were rich
in love.
- Winter 1958 - April 20, 2023
