The Lunch Pail
He left for work, lunch pail in hand –
a warm kiss on the cheek at the door.
His arms wrapped me in a big, bear hug –
he promised he’d be home at four.
The feel of his embrace as a warm cocoon –
made me happy to be alive.
The sound of his tires on the gravel –
as he slowly pulled out of the drive.
My father was my inspiration -
like a tissue for all of my tears.
As long as I had my pappy -
I felt cushioned from pain and fear.
The school day went by quickly –
a blanket of white outside.
I stuck my tongue out to taste the snow –
and the cold melted warm as pie.
Stunned by the silence of an empty house –
an indication of something gone wrong.
A tremble of fear like a chill in the air –
the startling message on the phone.
My father would not be home at four –
his heart gave out on the job.
He was breathing artificial life -
my own heart began to throb.
I tasted tears all through the night -
my pulsing heart in shock.
I watched the passing of the moon -
like a total eclipse of the clock.
The piercing sound of the ringing phone –
at precisely half past six.
I heard my mother fall to the floor –
the shock of a loss too big.
It was March of 1976 and the lunch pail sat alone –
I would never again hear the sound of his tires.
He was never coming home.
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