A cotton shirt just removed from the fridge,
damp with Argo starch, lies spread out smooth
over an ironing board. A hot iron slips quickly
like a graceful figure skater over its icy surface.
Steam rises, a warm breath in winter air, a breath
of safety and comfort in an orderly home laced
together in my memory by the pungent scents
of Argo starch and hot cotton fabrics. My sister
and I, those many years ago, sit, filling our coloring
books with the magic of bright waxy crayons.
I'm six years old and stay skillfully within the lines,
while my two-year-old sister scribbles in her book.
Butterbeans simmer on the stove with a ham hock
for supper. Daddy designed our house to suit
Mother's ideas. He will be home from work soon.
The GI Bill financed this house that Daddy earned
with four long years at sea. Years I had no Daddy, no
Daddy at all, years of war and worry. We are a family
of four now. My sister's always had a daddy to come
home to her. My early memories of Daddy are of a ghost
in faded black-and-white photos from faraway places.
A Faded Ghost in a Sailor Suit by Emily Black | Poetry Fabric Box
$15.00Price
