Little Wicker Chair

There isn't a time we speak
that you don't mention him.
Knocked from his bike by a GI.
A new bike. Half a mile from home.
Each day your daughter
just three,
waited on the corner
in a little wicker chair,
for his return.
He'd hoist her, chair and all
carry the lot in his strong left arm,
bring her in with him.
There were kisses for you
for the baby in the pram.
He was a proper man.
Shoulders broad, you grew
four inches in height
after you married him.
Four girls in seven years.
Thirty years on you speak
like that was last week,
when he cycled off,
proud of his shiny chrome.
For weeks after, the little girl
waited on the corner
in a wicker chair
for him to come home.