My old man: a vignette


A big, brooding figure he was.

He would come home from work and sit in the kitchen of our old weatherboard house in Footscray, Melbourne, dressed only in his underpants and a singlet, using the big breadknife to smear slabs of unsalted butter on thick hunks of bread.

I would sit nervously next to him while he buttered the end crust for me.

He was also the menacing figure who, belt in hand, towered over my crayons and me, glaring at my artwork scribbled on the wall or in his precious encyclopedia.

He was the guy who let me tag along with him into town on Saturday mornings, saying almost nothing.

He was my old man.

Copyright © 2009 Dejan Djurdjevic
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