Sunday Mornings In the Winter of My Youth

On those so very cold Sunday
mornings in the winter of my youth,
we had to look just right.
My colic was twice-pasted down,
only to pop up later, or so I know from
the fingers licked and repasting in the pew.
Ours was chaos of the moment.
For the day, sister’s hair in bows,
I would dress her in stockings and
patent leather shoes too,
as mother chased brother
into his Sunday attire.
And father would escape into the cold
to warm the car… it seemed so thoughtful
and yet we never said thank you.
But I too, wished I could escape,
into that moment of quiet and solitude
just to  welcome the cold.