Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I’d wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he’d call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love’s austere and lonely offices?
"Art is not escape, but a way of finding order in chaos, a way of confronting life."
Robert Hayden
Farm at Montfoucault in Snow, Camille Pissaro, 1874.
Thoughts
The poem recalls a memory a man has of his father. As an adult, the speaker is reflecting on his father's actions and recognizing them now for what they were: acts of love. Despite the strained atmosphere of the home, his father made sacrifices for his son on a daily basis without thanks.
His lack of appreciation was due at least partially from his lack of understanding. What did he know of love's austere and lonely offices? The love of a child is arduous work and only in hindsight can that child understand the weighty responsibility and dedication involved in the task.
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