I always smelled him before I saw him
The oddly sweet smell of the ink from the presses
Where he worked 2nd shift in 103 degrees
Printing labels on aluminum sheets

Damp with sweat, stained with ink
He'd take a beer and sit at the scarred wood table
His ink stained fingers would begin to tap
Some melody that filled his head and begged release
And then he'd sing

I'd pad in on small bare feet
Paper and pen in hand
He'd smile, knowing full well I'd been up waiting
But he never admonished me

I'd watch the pen sail across the paper
And fall asleep, still hearing him softly singing
Then I'd be carried to bed by Robert Burns, not the famous one.

 

 

 

For My Father

by Amanda Burns

© Amanda Saylor nee Burns. All rights reserved