On Sundays my sister and I <br /> would walk two miles to church <br /> our heads covered in kerchiefs <br /> our young bodies shivering <br /> a gust of Winter following our path. <br /> <br /> I would complain, telling my sister <br /> how I hated him <br /> Him, who had given me my own room, <br /> a radiator screaming hot at <br /> seven a.m., and my windows delicate <br /> with snowflakes from the night before. <br /> <br /> The big house on the hill, they <br /> called it, <br /> at night I remember it all <br /> the sounds of my brothers and sister <br /> the smells of my mother's cooking <br />. <br /> I wish I could go back, I wish <br /> I could go back and thank him.<br /><br />Louise Marie DelSanto<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/winter-1962/
