Salad Days: Raymond Carver on his father, Raymond Carver.
By: Reagan Greenwood
His teeth were crooked and yellow,
the kind a dentist never sees
because he never went to a dentist
because he, and by he, I mean we,
couldn’t afford a dentist.
His hands were grimy and calloused
from a day of work or perhaps
from a morning spent fishing
rather than staying home with my mother
before he went to his shift.
My baby bonnet was untied
and covered half my red face.
Still, he held me - the son who shared his name -
up proudly under his yellow grin.
That day was a salad day.
Edited by: Emily Chance
By: Reagan Greenwood
His teeth were crooked and yellow,
the kind a dentist never sees
because he never went to a dentist
because he, and by he, I mean we,
couldn’t afford a dentist.
His hands were grimy and calloused
from a day of work or perhaps
from a morning spent fishing
rather than staying home with my mother
before he went to his shift.
My baby bonnet was untied
and covered half my red face.
Still, he held me - the son who shared his name -
up proudly under his yellow grin.
That day was a salad day.
Edited by: Emily Chance
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