My Father Hates The Rain This work is considered exceptional by our editorial staff.

February 24, 2018

The clatter of pots and pans and droning voices from the six o'clock news
served as the morning alarm.
Waking me from my dreams, they called me to the kitchen
to watch my fathers cracked, calloused, and dirt caked hands labor over the stove.
On my tippy toes, chin barely resting on the counter,
I chirped "good morning" as he smiled and my ruffled hair.

This was the only time we had,
just as the sun began to peek over the mountains.
Days were spent working
feeding impatient animals and fixing broken balers
until there was no more daylight.
Yet, despite darkness, it never ended.

At the crack of dawn he would pull up one of the old pine chairs
placing it directly in front of the tv.
Waiting for the prediction he didn’t want to hear,
but there it was

With a sigh he rose
hat in hand
expression tired and blank.
And with the slam of the door,
he was gone.
Called away by the hay fields
and the rain.

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