early mornings in the house my father built

early morning and the sound of my dad's work shoes on the kitchen floor

leaving behind my great-grandmother's quilted coccoon for
orange slice shadows in the hallway and the cold wooden banister gripped
with tiny fingers so i wouldn't slip on the stairs in my
red flannel footie pajamas that haven't asked me to grow up, yet

six a.m. and bleary-eyed, my dad and his brief case in the kitchen
reading from a box of raisin bran with milk spilled on his tie
all grown up with three kids and a house he built himself
my mom still upstairs in their bed sleeping in his warm imprint

bright kitchen light and heat from the woodstove hot on my cheeks
standing on the botton stair, my voice squeeky with leftover sleep
my messy hair, curly like his, smoothed by his freckled hand
my dad calls me by a nickname that tells me i haven't grown up, yet

putting his brief case on the counter and cereal bowl in the sink
the volkswagen rabbit running rough, warming up, waiting for my dad
padding butter on a slice of white bread for me, crumbs fall snowy
on the sleeve of his navy blue suit, the one my mom says matches his eyes

early mornings i woke up for bread and butter and orange air
my grandmother's quilted coccoon waiting warm for me to return
with crumbs on my footie pajamas and a calmer collection of curls
after sharing my dad with the hot woodstove and quiet house

now i wake early mornings grown up, listening to my own work shoes on the kitchen floor