My father fostered in my sisters and me
a strong love for the written word.
As if answering to a signal,
the three of us
would scale the boulder of his big blue armchair,
press a book into his hands
and settle in close—
a nest of birds in footie pajamas,
nodding into Dad’s shoulder
as he read,
lending a voice to each character
and not missing any funny parts.
Years later we still have the chair,
but it only fits one of us.
We still have the books,
but they’ve been read too many times.
Outgrowing my perch
on the wide arm of that worn-out chair
meant it was time for me to find my own words…
yet I still sometimes miss
the smell of Dad’s sweaters.
(c) 2013 Marie KR