I remember on Sundays

I remember on Sundays -
one of the few days he could have to himself -
without fail we'd drive down to Rowland's Castle
for surely another pulled muscle or skewed finish,
in the bitter-cold or utter downpours;
I'd always arrive with the discipline of polished boots,
and always leave with them caked in mud,
clapped together at the boot of the beamer,
before roaring home through country lanes,
Guns N' Roses blaring,
whereupon arriving home I'd clean my boots again,
and listen to the kerching of a Radio 5 Live gameshow
as he spent the next few hours preparing a feast,
then we'd all sit at the table, elbows off, backs straight,
and I'd ding my knife on the crispy roast potatoes
(to test the integrity of their crispiness),
and refuel my growing body
with as much sausage stuffing as I were permitted.

I'm learning now that these weren't sacrifices;
these many things he'd do for us.
They were the things that made him happy.