Meatless
Fridays
were
meant to be a sacrifice. Frozen fish sticks
or tuna salad on toast with vegetable soup
filled our bellies most weeks. But sometimes,
unpredictably, Dad would bring home carryout
cheese pizzas and a six-pack of Pepsi Cola in glass
bottles. Entering the front door, he bore the scent
or tuna salad on toast with vegetable soup
filled our bellies most weeks. But sometimes,
unpredictably, Dad would bring home carryout
cheese pizzas and a six-pack of Pepsi Cola in glass
bottles. Entering the front door, he bore the scent
of
melted mozzarella and crisp baked dough
in
twin cardboard boxes. Each of us snagged
a
slice and giggled when the stringy cheese
stretched
from box to plate. Six of us
kids
eyed shrinking pizzas across a long,
scarred
table, as grease and tomato sauce
dripped
on chins, and fizz from half a soda
filled
our noses. Nights like that,
Dad
was a hero, and our myopic eyes failed
to
see the fraying cuffs of his pressed white
shirt,
shiny elbows of his suit, thinning hair,
weary
gaze, or the hollow set of his dark eyes.
—Mary Redman
Mary
Redman
is a retired high school English teacher who works part time
supervising student teachers for University of Indianapolis. She
enjoys having time to volunteer and to take classes at the Indiana
Writers Center. She has had poems published in Flying Island, Three
Line Poetry, Red River Review, Northwest Indiana Literary Journal,
and Tipton Poetry Journal, and elsewhere.