The Day of Joy

Shiny, wrapped, with bows on top,
big and small, round and robust,
These are for me. The family waits
patiently to see my smile and my beam.
A king's day for me, they wait
on me to see my dream.
How did they do this for me?

My dad must have been young then,
working hard and bearing burdens,
sitting with mom. They must have
planned this for months.

It is harder to believe the years
that followed. The gifts turned to meals,
a tree barren below. His face hardens from
two shifts at work. Her eyes soften with
sorrow from time away from home.

I still remeber the carefree feeling. Not so
vivid now in the time of need. Meals so become
verbal nods. He is rarely there, but what has
he to show? She's asleep from the night's fight
in the grind. Dinner is on me. Dinner is for me.

They still live in Dallas, renting
and working. Free time is rare and
the phone rarely silent. Many owed,
too many spent. I still wonder how
they did it- built a pyramid for a
king and painted the day joyful.

Whenever I visit, I ask again,
"We don't know," they say. Eating
and sleeping and watching TV, the
phone rings ever so softly in the
other room.