My Dad
Dear Dad, I thank you!
To me it was told, of times before I could remember,
How on Sundays Dad used to feed me.
Once I blew a mouthful of spinach on him
And his white, starched ironed Sunday cotton shirt,
Turned out looking spotted, with dark green spots.
Spinach I didn’t like, they said.
During another occasion when spinach was served,
I soberly pushed my plate over to him,
Sternly saying: Eat this!
Those days we had a black cat called Mörli;
When it was fed I guess my mother would have often said: Eat this!
And I think the phrase must have impressed me.
Mom and Dad painted a picture book for me.
‘To Mutzli’ it said on the cover page.
The orange coloured fox with the bushy tail
Not enough I could admire.
Dad, who every morning, freshly shaved,
With ironed shirt, matching tie and coat,
Early ran to catch the first train,
I loved and adored.
When later on we too got up,
Lingered yet in the area of the washing tub,
The smell of his brand of aftershave:
It smelled like Dad.
In the blue bowl wherein you used to make
Your everyday breakfast with Kentaur Oats,
We always used to find, left over,
A drop of coco-milk, meant for us to drink.
My brother and I took turns
To drink this precious sip
And often I thought: ‘Well, this special ‘soup’,
Is always only for a special Dad.
If ever ‘t was your turn for military training
I used to like you in your green uniform.
But looking at your heavy backpack, the helmet,
The gun, and tight shoes, I rather pitied you.
Not enough could I watch the skill of your hands,
When now and then with your military knife,
You sharpened our pencils and colour pencils;
All the points were of equal length!
On Saturday evenings,
While mom scrubbed the floor,
You used to bathe us
And also trim our nails.
For the tiled shower with stone-inlayed floor,
And with a geyser, we are thankful to you!
You installed it all by yourself.
And I thought: ‘Dad can just do anything!’
After you changed your job
You stood for hours in grandpa’s workshop
Sharpening saw blades;
‘T was to earn money; to buy our bread.
Sometimes when you worked overtime
I slipped into the workshop to have a look;
There it smelled of wood and the floor was strewn
With interesting bits of waste: Building blocks!
Alive in my mind still lingers the sound of the machine
Where You Dad, worked, wearing your blue overcoat;
Even this simple job you did precise;
I could see it always in your watchful eyes.
Once I could paint up there, in that workshop,
An old and worn out cart, meant for my doll.
You got me oil paint, the colour of the sky,
And showed me how to use brush and paint with care.
I can see it still, that doll cart,
After the painting job was done,
Set on the table for the paint to dry.
A beauty and a treasure it was to me!
Once during a meeting of prayer
The talk was about ‘The gathering of God’s people’.
After the occasion you looked deep into my eyes
And said: ‘Who knows, may be we too are God’s people.’
During the evening hours at our table you often read
Some special literature to mom, who was busy,
Mending boy’s pants and ironing our clothes.
Your voice and the sound of mom working:
Awakened in me, a feeling: of Home.
Later you insisted I join a course
Where I should learn the art of typing;
How shy I was, I didn’t like to go.
But now I do say: ‘Thank you’ for it, every day.
When you came to visit us here in India,
You never took an hour’s rest:
The vacuum cleaner got repaired,
In front of the house a terrace was laid,
For the great grandchildren a cart of wood you made
And you ventured, for me a sun oven to create!
I know your prayers hold me up every day.
I know you love me and bear me in your heart.
For this love I thank you and tell you from my soul:
‘I love you!’
I thank God for my special dad.
Johanna Devadayavu
