Those Winter Sundays

Those Winter Sundays
by Robert Hayden

Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.

I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,

speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices?

I love this poem about fathers. It captures so well my own feelings/experience. I grew up in house of chronic angers which I lived in fear of. I also spoke indifferently to my father more often than I would like to admit. My mother commanded and got most of the attention in our house. My dad stayed more in the shadows, receiving little recognition or praise for any sacrifices he made. It was only his duty, after all.

While he did not have to get up early to make the fires, he made a lot of other scrifices for us which I never thought about growing up. (My dad did polish our shoes for Sunday. . . ) Some of my own ungrateful early morning memories involve my dad waking me with the cheerful call, "Get up Mary sunshine!" Which I despised!! I used to pretend I was still asleep, hoping he would go away.

I remember when I was older my dad getting up very early to drive me to my job on the breakfast shift at McDonalds. . . still cheerful, though I was surly at that hour of the morning.

It amazes me that I cannot remember my father ever raising his voice to me, ever being angry with me! I have never worried once about my father rejecting me or turning his back on me no matter what I did. I have never been afraid to face my father, never doubted his love and approval.

My father had two Masters' degrees but he moonlighted for many years in a factory to make enough money to support our family. He had no expensive hobbies and seldom spent money on himself, except to buy an occaisional book. He never reminded us about how hard he worked or how much it cost to raise four children on a minister's salary.

He was always my biggest fan; he would unfailingly make a big fuss over me when I was dressed up for a banquet or a concert. I can remember coming downstairs after spending hours on my hair and make-up to find my dad waiting to exclaim over how lovely I looked. I always felt like I was the prettiest girl in the room, because that's the reflection I saw in my father's eyes.

It has never been easy for me to say any of these things to my father - I have always felt uncomfortable expressing affection openly to him; I don't know why. but I plan to send him this poem for Fathers' Day this year, because it communicates so well what is in my heart.