I remember on Sundays

On Sundays, I remember.

It was one of the few days
he could have had to himself.

But without fail we’d drive to Rowland’s Castle,
for surely just another pulled muscle
or skewed finish.

Be it the bitter cold, or an utter downpours,
I’d arrive with the discipline of polished boots,

and leave with them caked in mud,
clapping them together
sending echoes through the car park
before climbing into his Beemer,
roaring home through country lanes,
Guns N’ Roses blaring,

and upon arriving home,
I'd clean my boots again
to the ker-ching of a 'Radio 5 Live' gameshow
as he spent the next few hours
preparing a feast,

then we’d sit at the table
(Elbows off. Backs straight.)
and I’d ding my knife on the roast potatoes
to test the integrity of their crispiness,
refueling my body
with as much sausage stuffing as I were permitted.

I understand better now
that these weren’t sacrifices
(the many things he did for us),

they were the things that made him happy.

Updated on March 6, 2026 for Dad’s funeral