When I was a boy my father was a Salesman driving all over the country. In those days, the roads were not as good, the emergency services fewer . Winters were often cold and snowy and we, like all kids hoped for blizzards which would close schools and bring sledging, snowballs and snowmen.
For me this childhood treat was tempered by the thought of Dad driving around in atrocious and dangerous weather. His frown and his obvious worry were palpebral but no sales, no money.
I used to sit on his bedroom window sill for hours until finally his car appeared at the end of the street.
Waiting for Dad
Small boy,curled in feline form on the narrow window ledge.
Ancient glass,constantly by hand cleared of moisture,opaque,
cold touch pane teases a cheek.
Vague familiar scent of cologne, elusive, a comforting shade
of absent love. A red striped tie strewn on the bed. Images of
him wearing his favourite blue.
A bedside clock ticks, mocking with it’s constant reminding,
providing a steady beat, marking a child’s mounting angst.
Outside odd cars gingerly inch by, soon covered tracks
deny their passing while ice insects swarm in the glow of
Purist white bathed in strange hues by drama enhancing sodium
Not a soul can be seen.
A question fatigued mother with perfected mask of nonchalance,
a young imagination running wild, heightened senses, straining,
a feeling, a knowing relief at the first glimpse of familiar form,
amber light, flashing an ‘all is well’ signal.
Excitement flooded voice announces “Mum, he’s back !”