The Harvest ~~ anna hood

On paydays when Pa didn't come home
Ma's high heels would beat a tattoo
from stove to back door as she flung
our supper into the yard.
Out would go the fish
the tatties and peas.
Pots, plates, forks and knives
heaved into the yellow porch light.
The dogs - we had 4 -
grinned on those Friday nights.

'The lot of you off to bed,' Ma'd say.
We'd climb into bed dirty,
little girl giggles ringin' from our tongues
free from the hated fish
free from the bath with the dreaded shampoo
Ma's fingers scrapin' and clawin' our heads
and us screechin' with the pain and shame of it all.
She'd holler up at us,
'I'll be up there after ye if ye don't quit
with yer carryin' on.' We'd cover our mouths
snortin' and chokin' with laughin'.

Pa'd come down the lane roarin' with the drink
singin' in his sweet tenor voice, some
sweet Irish tune that reminded him of home.
She'd be on him the minute his hand touched the door
cryin' and wailin' to beat the band.
Him full of apologies.
We'd listen from our big bed
knowing his hand
all callused and gentle
was strokin her hair
drying her eyes.
And promisin'
'By God! it'll never happen again my girl.
I swear.'

She'd forgive him of course
and later
after their laughter and murmurs stopped
we, my sisters and I, would sit
on the floor, elbows on the sill
watching the two of them
like faerie folk in the moonlight
harvesting pots and dishes
from the yard.