Robert Hayden — Unpacking Those Winter Sundays - 3NA Lit 2021

Those Winter Sundays Sundays too my father got up early and put his clothes on in the blueblack 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 polishеd my good shoes as well. What did I know, what did I know of love's austеre and lonely offices?