| Welcome to A Series of Unfortunate Events. We hope you enjoy your visit. You're currently viewing our forum as a guest. This means you are limited to certain areas of the board and there are some features you can't use. If you join our community, you'll be able to access member-only sections, and use many member-only features such as customizing your profile, sending personal messages, and voting in polls. Registration is simple, fast, and completely free. Join our community! If you're already a member please log in to your account to access all of our features: |
| Those Winter Sundays; No one ever thanked him | |
|---|---|
| Tweet Topic Started: Jul 20 2014, 09:49 AM (29 Views) | |
| Lemony Snicket | Jul 20 2014, 09:49 AM Post #1 |
![]()
Administrator
|
Sundays too my father got up early And put his clothes on in the blueback cold, then with cracked hands that ached from labor in the weekday weather made banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him. I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking. When the rooms were warm, he'd call, and slowly I would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house, Speaking indifferently to him, who had driven out the cold and polished my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love's austere and lonely offices?
|
![]() |
|
| « Previous Topic · Library · Next Topic » |





3:33 AM Jul 11