For My Father

Yellow walls
And a dim ceiling light.
Together they cast a warm glow
Over our kitchen table.
His bright blue eyes shine
With a little boy's wonder,
And an old man's years.
Somehow they don't,
But do,
Look right on him.
His weathered hands work deftly
As they pick up
And put down
Each little piece
On our makeshift worktable.
Our green tablecloths' red flowers
Are pushed back
For Mama's sake.
If she knew we were working here
She'd have a fit.

The soft light and warm air
Helps sleep tempt me.
But I don't want to sleep.
I just want to hear his soft,
Loving,
Gentle
Voice
As he patiently explains
Where each of the small gears belong.
He elaborates on each bit
And can tell my interest
At the ancient-looking rusted ones.

We finish the ears all too quickly
And he glances down at me.
"Are you still awake?"
I Smile groggily and he grins
In the cheesy sentimental way
Only parents can.
He pushes out his wooden chair
And next thing I know
I'm in his arms.
They're big and strong and safe.
And they cradle my whole body.
With each of his footsteps my eyelids get heavier
And heavier.
I sway with his frame
As we go up the stairs
Step.
By.
Step.
Until we reach a green painted room.
He lumbers from there to my small room.
It's blue walls are grey in the dark
As an invisible collection of dolls smiles at us.
He lays me down in my little pink bed
And pulls the covers to my chin.
My eyes drift closed, and the last thing I feel is his
Strong,
Loving,
Gentle,
Patient
Hand on my forehead.