I hear him opening drawers

cupboards, the icebox

creep from my bed

sit beside him

feeling big

in the solid oak chair 

at the kitchen table

its flowered oilcloth cover

and blue-rimmed bowls

filled with broken graham crackers

creamy milk. 

We don’t talk, my father and I

content together

at this ungodly hour

of three in the morning.

Outside dark sky

and part of a constellation

glimpsed through the window.

Which one doesn’t matter.

I know that he will be

as he has always been

my North Star.

 

© by Mary Lou Taylor.

Used with the author’s permission.