Skating with Father by Celia McCulloch

Skating with Father


Winter mist against the window glass,
the kitchen smells of oil-stove heat and cedar wax
and we're wearing thick wool socks that scratch
our legs. First we laid the pasty wax, my father and I,

and now his dark, tall figure begins to glide
across the floor. I try to follow but just can't slide
across the sticky goo until I put my feet in his smooth tracks
and then he swirls and loops as skaters do, over and back.

He hums his monotone of Skaters' Waltz. He spells words in wax
for me to guess. He whirls, hands held high, ballerina-style.
I do the same. Then I stand on his size 12 feet and we run across the tiles.
I follow every crazy move till we end up a giggling pile

as my mother comes through the door
stamping snow from her feet.      She frowns and we feel poor
excuses for workers, ashamed somehow. I simply asked you to polish the floor,
she says. Must you always make a game of work!


Copyright   Celia McCulloch