In my street,
the dads went to work every morning in a clean
suit. Before work, they drunk espressos
and bought new packs of cigarettes. Not my dad.
My dad didn’t smoke, and he only wore suits
for weddings and funerals. My dad baked eight
trays of pastries and fried thirty Berliners, all
before the other dads set off to work. When
the other dads came home from work
before dinner, my dad was still at work.
My dad was always working.
In my street,
while dads were at work, mums cleaned the house,
went to the market and did the school run. Not my mum.
My mum worked alongside my dad in our family business.
In my street,
children went to school in the morning, played
outside after school and watched TV. Not me.
Before school and after school and on school holidays,
I worked alongside my mum and dad in our family
business. Before school, I served espressos and cigarettes
to the other dads in my street. Every Saturday morning,
my mother gave me a list for the market and another
for groceries. Eight-year-old me knew her way
around the fish market and the supermarket, but
didn’t know any of the characters of Sesame Street.
