Sunday Morning With Dad
I'm a young child–five years old, six, seven. My sister, two years older. It is mid-winter, high summer, any and all seasons. We wait with Dad on the corner for the trolley. My sister and I in our best dresses. Dad in a suit.
We get off in the center of town at the green. Dad buys peanuts. Some for us, some for the pigeons. We chase them. Dad attracts them. They land on his hat, his shoulder. They eat out of his hand.
tower bells
pigeons ride
the vibrations
Dad is soon joined by other men, other custom tailors for "shop talk." These other tailors leave their children at home. A few hours of escape, peace. Not Dad. Proud and pleased he is. Our clean faces and healthy bodies. Our freshly pressed clothes sewn by Mom, our smart coats tailored by his hands. Having married late, at age 45, he likes to show off his young daughters. Most of the time we oblige, knowing there may be a stop at Clark's Dairy Bar before going home.
sun on her face
the little girl sneezes
at the tall stranger
Presence
