.
On Sundays we’d drive
to the cemetery,
just me and Dad.
He’d talk softly
to his departed son
and arrange fresh flowers
on the grave.
Then standing tall,
he’d blow his nose
and tell me it was time
to put some miles on the car,
and we’d head east
for the country roads
where he’d point his corn cob pipe
at the tiny farms
and talk about Oklahoma,
then sing a chorus
of “The Strawberry Roan”.
Sometimes we’d pull over, and
he’d sniff the air and smile –
and then we’d turn around
and head for home.
.
.
(c) 1992, 2018 Betty Hayes Albright
.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d_yfmKMK4mo
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