The Sunday morning perfume of simmering garlic
seasoning the pot
smokes up my kitchen with memories.
I see a wooden coffee grinder
with fine ironwork and a secret drawer
that held the prize. “No more chickory to stretch
it like during the depression” Dad said,
“cause these is good times.”
A bushel of fresh snails,
a pizza he carried all the way home
hot from Tremont Avenue warms my heart.
There was no such thing as delivery in those days.
Your Dad was the delivery man.
He pulled the Christmas tree every year
up four flights of stairs,
thrilled he could provide it to honor
his religion and family.
He placed every single piece of tinsel straight
like a prayer, from the top down.
As I start cooking for a feast
this morning in my pajamas,
I can only smile knowing he passed on to me
the excitement and joy of these two words…
“Company’s coming!”
Happy Father’s Day to the best Dad that ever lived.