On Sunday, my daddy used to get up late
Everyone in the houses breakfast had to wait
No one can eat before our dad
We didn’t mind. It wasn’t that bad
It was the one day he could relax
From six grueling days of lumber stacks
Daddy was a carpenter. He was skilled
At his trade
With fourteen mouths to feed,
no money ever was saved
So when the Sunday paper arrived
in our mailbox
Daddy propped his feet up. I could see
his white socks
It was quiet, which was unusual as he sat and read
Mama sat us down and made sure loud words weren’t said
We loved and respected our mother and dad
Never asked questions that would make them sad
Daddy’s Sunday paper was his weekly update
passing the comic section to small hands that
Would wait
A routine he kept up all of his life until the day he died
Thinking of him on this day brings a smile and a good cry
In this technical age, Most mailboxes are empty if even there is one
Back in the day, Daddy’s Sunday paper always brought us fun
A sweet memory from the past
Sorry it didn’t last
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