A View of A Remembrance of Sunday Dinner

(Thinking of and missing my father today.  Had he lived, he would've been 68 years old.  I love you, Daddy.)

The sun sparkles like precious jewels

set in a tower of gold off the windows
of a building dedicated to revival.
Blue lights shine on blue water, lapis on sapphire.
A memory washes over me, a genuine moment,
a buried treasure drifts ashore.

I recall the only dinner you made me.

Roast beef, swimming in gravy.

Tater tots, shrouded in ice making grease pop in wild applause.
Green beans, French cut, canned in briny broth.
A blue plate special of your effort and anxiety,
all served with love that Sunday long ago.

You cursed when nerves overtook you,

and you dropped your plate.
You declined my offer to clean because
you didn't want me to see your tears
of frustration mingle with mop water.
 
You pulled off your apron –
gravy stained, sweat stained, slightly shamed –
never looking up until I offered
to share my meal with you. "Please join me.
I won’t enjoy it unless you do.”

I remember your smile at my invitation

as I stand on this chilly pier.
It glimmered like the sapphire stream
before me awash in the golden gloaming.

The memory of your smile

warms me and I wipe away a tear,
wishing I could share another meal with you.

(c) 2011 - Tracey Morris, All Rights Reserved