Dad Never Cooked Much

Dad never cooked much,
then again,
he was never around.
But when Dad cooked,
it was a grand event,
with spices and marinades
flying around the
apple red kitchen.
The meat went on the grill,
sizzling wildly in its
open mouth in open air,
juicy smells smiling
down on us in
sleepy tendrils.

Dad never danced much,
then again,
he claimed to have two
feet of the left variety.
But when Dad danced,
it was because he knew
I would always smile and
tell him how good he was.
Finally his little princess
once more,
he would twirl me,
strong arms promising
to never let go,
peppered stubble grazing
my laughing cheeks.

Dad never cried much,
then again,
he was raised to be
a southern man,
strong and rugged.
But when Dad cried,
the whole earth
shattered upon his
broad and weary shoulders.
He cried not for the past,
but for the man
he feared
he would never become
and for the father he knew
his children deserved.

S.H.

Dad Never Cooked Much - Samantha Huckabay (via notalbusdumbledore)

(via roses-for-la-arabi)