I almost had her. Save for the grace a year holds she would be mine. Now who ever I find Whatever she may be I'll spend my time regretting, the one that got away.
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 cronic 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?
1 comments:
Well written article.
Post a Comment