My Dad Got to Be in Charge

when my mum travelled to Ontario.

He’d make us a schedule – slender pencil

listing our five names, neat column

with chores next to each of his children.

I was four, got the job of drying

the dishes with my dad every evening.

I stood on the worn kitchen chair,

he’d hand me dripping plates and glasses

as summer set through rose lattice.

We loved our jobs, fell into the comfort

of routine, my dad feigning military sternness,

a lull of the familiar day in, day out.

Then our home would tilt when she returned,

a hush stifling our desire for her to stay

away another week. The dishes piling up,

smelly and hard, my brothers coming home

only to sleep, the paper schedule fraying.