Sundays too my father got up early
and put his clothes on in the blueblack cold,
then with cracked hands that ached
from labor in the weekday weather made
banked fires blaze. No one ever thanked him.
I'd wake and hear the cold splintering, breaking.
When the rooms were warm, he'd call,
and slowly I would rise and dress,
fearing the chronic angers of that house,
Speaking indifferently to him,
who had driven out the cold
and polished my good shoes as well.
What did I know, what did I know
of love's austere and lonely offices? THE STORIES OF FATHERS ARE MANY, HAYDEN CAPTURES THE REALITY OF ONE THAT MAY LAY IN THE CORE OF OUR BEING. A FATHER USED BY THE HARDSHIPS OF LIFE. A FATHER UNABLE TO ARTICULATE HIS LOVE . A FATHER WHOSE LOVE SPEAKS THROUGH SOME ACTIONS. YET, FOR SOME OF US SUCH A FATHER WOULD BE PRECIOUS COMPARED TO THE PAIN OF ABSENCE. IT IS SO VERY HARD TO MAKE UP FOR ABSENCE. AUTHENTIC THERAPY HAS A CHANCE TO DO SO.
you can listen to Hayden at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pjosL9VpXjY | 
