When the fireflies flashed
and crickets chirped,
I waited for my father
on the front porch,
its boards rotting with years and rain;
meanwhile Mama cooked fatback and biscuits
in the kitchen
on the wood-burning stove,
flour-laced sweat
trickling down her weary face.

Lazy as the ticked hound
sprawled in the cool sunset shade
of the giant oak,
time was all I had
to look forward to
in those post-Depression days --
except the sound
of his dilapidated log truck
clackety-clacking down the dusty road,
bringing mayonnaise, city bread, and bananas
he could afford
when he'd sold a few logs,
and sometimes chocolate drops,
if he'd squeezed his pennies tight.

Kicking up sand in the grassless yard,
barefooted I would race
to meet his sawdust hug,
hear the soft crunch
of the sack in his hand.

Copyright © (1994) Ruth Gillis
All Rights Reserved by the Author
(used with permission)