those winter sundays

When I was young, my father had a painting. It was of a very brown forest with some brownish grass, coppery leaves, dusty coloured sky. Generally brown. There was a brown stag in, standing between two trees, and through some mental oddity or lack of visual development, I could not see it. Harry could see it, and had always been able to, even when she was my age. I think I was about three or four then. It's one of my first memories. 

Harry got so angry with me over it. In looking back, I can see she thought I was pretending not to see it, presumably to annoy her, as younger brothers do. At the time, I had no idea why she was shouting. And I remember my father sending her out of the room, showing me right where the stag was, lifting me up so I could touch, but it was no good. Still invisible. He showed me again the next day and I don't even know how many times after that, until one day I could see it. 

I suppose my point is that the holidays always make me think of my family, and I'm trying to be more positive about it this year. Doesn't come naturally, but there you are. 

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You can also listen to him read it here if you want to.

Those Winter Sundays
Robert Hayden

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?