My father would
always lecture me
when I came home late,
particularly after missing a family-oriented event,
of some sort.

He would usually address me on his way out in the morning,
me half-asleep and ensconced in sheets,
while he adjusted his tie and sighed from my doorframe.

“This was important. We want to feel close
as a family,
yet you’re never here in time, young lady.
Your brothers were here. Your dinner was cold.
We’ll talk about this later.”

It’s the same now, except
he’s got silver hair
and I don’t feel guilty
anymore.