Those Winter Sundays

Those winter Sundays

Robert Hayden
(1913 – 1980)

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 coal 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?


This poem makes me think of my dad. He does so much for everyone and yet, no one ever thanks him. I am terrible at it, because he’s been there my whole life and I haven’t known much time without him. I do know that without him, I would be completely lost. The first stanza especially rings true to me.

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

It doesn’t matter what time of day, or night. Dad is always there, doing the things no one expects him to do, all of the time. And I feel bad. Terrible, in fact… because he deserves so much better than anyone gives him. My dad is one of those people that you meet and don’t forget about. He can talk for hours on end and, surprisingly, all of it is interesting. I don’t just say this because I am his daughter- this is true fact. Ask anyone who has had a conversation with him. It just keeeeeeps on going. But besides being the most hilarious man I know, he is the best father I could ever ask for. There isn’t one thing he wouldn’t do for me or my sisters, or my mom. So this is why he deserves more thanks than a person could ever give him.