I nuzzled my head closer to the scratchy grey wool of my dad’s sweater. Smaller shoulders under stronger ones; a posture I grew to become acutely aware of. His shoulders: large enough to bear the heavy burdens that all dads must carry – specifically the weight of a daughter. Not that I was unwanted. No, my weight came from the enormous amount of his love that I had consumed. His love for me, his concern for me…vested into my life in the way only a daughter can demand from her father. My breath caught in my throat as I breathed in the smell of antiseptic, pine, and bread. One more breath in and out. I wished I could stay right where I was: perfectly content, home. But time does not stop, even for moments so pure they feel as timeless as the …show more content…
My dad pulled out two aprons. His, long and white like a scientist’s coat. Mine, made by my grandmother out of an old Rose brand flour sack. My dad slipped the loop over my pig tails and tied the back for me, my arms held out like a scarecrow in a field. My dad was as comfortable in the kitchen as he was in the Emergency Room. He commands respect and quick obedience: gentle but firm. With an ease of practice and experience, my dad brought out all of the ingredients for the caramel roll dough: wheat flour, white flour, sugar, butter, eggs, milk, salt, water, and yeast. He narrated as he went along, sprinkling our conversations with little tips and tidbits he had picked up from his mother or from Rosey Levy Beranbaum’s “The Bread Bible”. After the milk had been scalded and cooled to the proper temperature, my dad measured out just under one tablespoon of yeast. The yeast lives in a brown Red Star Yeast jar. I tried to screw the cap back onto the cold jar (the yeast stays in the freezer to maintain maximum rising potential). My shoulders not yet strong enough to tighten the lid, I lifted up my offering of yeast to my dad. With one deft turn, he shut the jar of yeast…preserving the funny little tubes for the next batch of bread. I spread the yeast over the surface of the milk, and then waited. My eyes, the same color as my dad’s, watched as the yeast began to turn frothy. My dad explained how the yeast enjoys to gobble up sugar in order to grow, but that salt,
Click here to unlock this and over one million essaysGet Access
Now, here I am. Living with my dad as the dark feelings of misery I had grown accustomed to slowly fade, day by day. As they fade, my perspicuity grows with it because now I know how she is, and how easily anyone can twist a story. I know that I want to go far away; I know that I want to be anything but what she is. I know that, despite what it may seem like on the outside, everything has changed: I can’t bring myself to regret
I know mom died, Rosie, but it's better than seeing you like this." The words stabbed mercilessly into her, winding in-between bones and cartilage to strike her very core. "You dropped out, I know you've been stealing from me, and I can't support you the way you are anymore. It's been years, Rose. I've moved on. Your brother moved on. You need to move on, too." Pale blue-green eyes stared, blankly, at the weary older man leaning against the frame of her bedroom door--her father. Beleaguered with stress and a faint sense of hopelessness, he just stared at the floor as he addressed his twenty-three-year-old daughter. "I talked to (Your Character) the other day, about you. People were worried for a while, now they've just about given up. You've
Everyone has a father. No matter if the father is present in a child’s life or not, he still exists and takes that role. A father has a major impact on his child whether he knows it or not, and that impact and example shapes the child’s perspective on life, and on love. The authors, Robert Hayden and Lucille Clifton, share the impact of their fathers through poetry, each with their own take on how their fathers treated them. The poems “Forgiving My Father” and “Those Winter Sundays” have significant differences in the speaker’s childhood experiences, the tone of the works, and the imagery presented, which all relate to the different themes of each poem.
The large cut on the right side of my forehead had begun to bleed again; my own blood threatening to choke me. “Calm down its ok. You're going through a rough phase that's all. Try to get some rest,” was all the comfort dad could manage before choking up into tears. He turned away as streaks of auburn curls lightly brushed against me, the owner tending to my wound. Rest, he says; not so easy when every time your eyes droop, the dreams begin. They have been getting worse, the closer I become in finding a way to bring her
For two weeks, I didn’t see my father at all. I woke up, every day, hoping that he would be in the dining room helping Dusty out with the making of breakfast. Instead, for the past two weeks, I woke up to the usual: breakfast on the table, Dusty and Vinyl calling me down to join them with still no sign of my father. No longer, for those two weeks, did I wake up to the smell of water vapour from Jazzmere’s smoking pipe. No longer, for those two weeks, did I wake up to Jazzmere singing old Equestrian songs about the Princesses and how they formed the kingdom. No longer, for those two weeks, did I wake up to the hissing sound of the iron Jazzmere used to iron the clothes I wore to school.
Dad's in a pretty good mood; he's preparing his patented breakfast. Mounds of fried potatoes, potatoes sliced with a knife into little squares then fried in lard in a cast iron skillet. Two more cast iron fry pans are filled with scrambled eggs; a fourth pan is brimming with bacon. There are several sheets of his invention, cinnamon rolls made from Bisquick dough with sugar added, rolled thin, spread with a thick coating of butter, pounds of homemade strawberry jam, raisins, more sugar and cinnamon. Rolled up, cut about an inch thick, placed on a cookie sheet and baked. They're a real pleasure to eat hot with even more butter melting over them but the cookie sheet with the spilled jam cooked into cement is a bugger to clean. Dad never does the dishes. That's a kid job.
For the speaker to remember such a small task highlights how significant the task was. Suggesting that the winter months were cruel and that the cold must be “driven out” (line 11). Although the cold is being driven out, it does not make-up for the lack of warmth missing from the home that is only offered by a mother’s love. The lack of a mother figure within the home can be the reason as to why the speaker and his father have a distant relationship. The speaker addresses his dad as his “father” (line 1), a very formal and emotionally detached word that in association with “speaking indifferently to him” (line 10) illustrates how after his wife’s death he was forced to interact with their child. An interaction that the father prior to his wife’s death may not have wanted because it is not his child of flesh and blood; therefore, not wanting to form a relationship. However, due to the circumstances the father must now interact and bear the cross of parenthood on his back because his decision to adopt a child is a life sentence. Similar to the cross the wife carried until her
Growing up in a single parent household gave me a difficult childhood while growing up because I didn't have many of the advantages many of my other friends had. Little did I know, I had over and above. She was never really the type to show much affection, but like Robert Hayden’s father in Those Winter Days, she had a different kind of love language. Robert Hayden, describes of the amount of love his father had for him because he did not should it by affection, words, or emotion but instead by his actions, which sometimes went unrecognized. He conveys to the reader through language, imagery, and emotion.
“Mommy and Daddy are separating. Mommy is to moving to Natick and I will move to Concord” explained my Dad, his forehead all scrunched up like the ocean's waves. My Mom sat there, her arm wrapped around me in a tight embrace, tears welled in her eyes like water about to spill out of a bucket. I looked over at my Dad, his eyes also glistened like the sidewalk after a rainstorm.
As I looked at my father’s sandy hair, it suddenly looked very dull. Struggling to breathe, I clutched his clammy hand and thought of ways to help him. “Do you want some water?” I asked uneasily. He took shallow breaths and finally opened his eyes towards me. Thinking a moment and trying not to speak, he simply nodded. I hated seeing him so helpless. It was officially over, here I was now as the supposed child caring for the adult. I thought things were supposed to be the other way around. Getting up to get his drink, I felt as though I was standing in a hazy dream. Patiently, I handed him the glass as my heart dropped into my stomach. What would I do without him? It would not be long and I would have to face this uncertainty
In this poem, the author Robert Hayden dramatizes the conflict of a father-son relationship, inviting us to recall our past relationships with parents with him. This poem was written so the speaker can reflect on his own life and help the reader connect to him. The opening stanza sets the scene with the speaker telling us about his father’s life on Sundays. Note how the author uses imagery to show his inner feelings of coldness towards his father at time, using words like “blue-black cold” (line 2) and “cracked hands” (line 30).
While having an intimate conversation with her, I could see her pity for me. The hurt in my mother’s turbulent brown eyes fueled my desire for change, I was complacent no longer. After extensively evaluating my word choice, I relinquished a carefully constructed letter to my father depicting my emotions and desire for him to overcome his vices. Drunken rage rose, boiling over. Discrediting my feelings, my father attempted to deny all the hardships he caused me, making himself out to be father of the century while my status dwindled to simply a rebellious, angsty
“Amelia, come here.” My dad’s voice was soft as he beckoned for Amelia to cross the room to him. She wandered over in a daze and he pulled her into his lap, the warm confines of his wool sweater. Her eyes shut.
“Meggie!” my mother hollered roughly, “would you just take a few minutes to clean out your closet? I could spy your tank tops from under that pile of smelly socks. Not to mention the mountain of dirty laundry on that unmade bed is gross.” I sighed and leaned against the sofa. But here comes my father smirking beside me, “Can you give me a kiss before you head off to school?” Immediately, I grabbed my keys and walked out of the house with my unzipped backpack, not bothering to even look at him. Sometimes, I just wish my morning routine could have a slight change. To simply put, I really don’t want to walk out the house while rolling my eyes hard, at least not that often. As part of a social science research project developed at UBC, I am now stranded on a small remote island. Surprisingly, my cabin, particularly the closet is unnaturally clean. No dirty laundry in sight and the bed is miraculously made every day. Although I have all the necessities of life, there is still something missing. I feel lonely. My heart aches simply from my parent’s absence. It is not until I have to spend a year on this island, away from home that I finally realize how much I appreciate them more than I already do. In order to get through the dreadful days, I’m reminiscing about the two most important people in my life.