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 palpable 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

struggling headlights.

Purist white bathed in strange hues by drama enhancing sodium

street lamps.

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 !”

2 thoughts on “WAITING FOR DAD

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