An Ode to my Parents

795, an Ode to Mom and Dad

If I could turn back the calendar
to visit my childhood era
there would be many normal days
that would vie for my nostalgia.

Sunday dinners with the table laid
in good china and savory dishes
with married siblings gathered
and nephews and nieces scattered
like squirrels gathering acorns.

School mornings, mom in the kitchen
the stove on and we boys crowding
to dress by the heat of the oven door
while mom fried an entire slab of bacon
in her black iron fry pan - grease popping
like bbs making us jump when hit.

Long rides around the southern states
accompanying dad on his business trips
marveling at trinkets from his customers
living for the motel swimming pools
keeping him alert by rubbing his back
as his stories made miles fly by in a blink.

Punishments for our many misdeeds
applied equally by mom and dad
and the secret honey we savored:
for each guilty switching we endured
we’d gotten away with many more.

Somehow earning scout honors
molded into upright citizens
with beaming parents always present
knowing their support and comfort
came packaged with demands to strive
always pushing ourselves for their sake.

I grew up wanting to be wise enough
not to repeat the mistakes they made
only to find myself hoping against fate
that I have been able to give my children
even a tenth of the love and guidance
I received when I least recognized it.