The Pajama Ride
Sundays with Sinatra buzzed
and crackled over Daddy’s car radio,
As we cruised down Bridge Street.
The nine of us snuggled in the backseat
dressed in our pajamas, nodding away sleep.
Tiny heads rest in teeny laps,
Cradling the little ones like dolls.
Always the last to rest my eyes, I am entranced
By my father.
Singing along with Frank,
Emitting complete ease and tranquility.
He caressed the wheel like an artist
Protecting his most precious piece.
And his hands,
Oh, his hands, I will never forget!
Gentle but stern with piano-player fingers,
Callused, yet bursting with love.
Only when the tender rapture of sleeping children
filled the car did
Daddy turn and catch my eye.
Reaching back, he grazed
my cheek and winked.
Turning to the road,
he sang on, never letting the music
of his heart fade.
Letting my eyes droop,
I slept, knowing for the first time,
That I was loved.