of the usual wimpy embrace –
in the usual spits of rain . . .
as I had come to expect.
he had recounted
a childhood memory, to me:
late at night –
his mother would lay out a small supper
and then wake his dad
who came to the table,
rumpled with sleep.
he’d eat and pull on his overcoat and boots
and hug him good-bye
and walk away into the darkness and cold and snow
to go work the graveyard shift,
at the local mill.
night after night –
he’d run to the window
filled with the ache
of unshed tears for his father
choking on the bitter pill of childhood:
being too little, to take a grown up’s place.
long ago he told me,
he wasn’t much good at good-byes –
though in my heart I know,
has made it so.
photo: Snowy Sidewalk – W. Bourke
© 2013 Wendy Bourke