He had two of them
Longjohns they call them now. We just called them long underwear.
Long sleeves, long legs, split at the back, buttons down the front.
I never saw him inside them.
Fathers didn’t appear in underwear in front of their daughters.
But his shape danced on the line on breezy spring days and gusty autumn days.
Never in summer.
But in winter the white body of the six-foot-two man
Hung stiffly from the shoulders, solid in the frosty air,
Sparkling and glinting under the sundogged blue sky.
Amber Harvey
November 24, 2021