Look at this house of my past.
Our scrolled initial on the storm door,
the hall closet and his gray hat
on the top shelf.
In winter he stapled plastic
to the window frames.
Mornings I’d reach up
from bed and press my hands
against the cold pushing in.
Downstairs,
the car warmed up in the garage
and the shovel scraped at ice
in the driveway.
From up here I watch him,
bent double, black overcoat brushing
against the stiff snow,
white breath circling like a cloud.
Published in Inkblots
Photo by freestocks on Unsplash