My old man died on a Saturday night.
I watched as he just stopped breathing.
And though it was awful and painful and sad,
I was glad that he wasn't alone.
It felt like something he'd just had to go through;
an arduous task he'd been given.
And it seemed so unfair it was his cross to bear;
the sickest and weakest of us.
Oh, we never spoke much as a father and son,
but we had an understanding.
And I still hear his voice when I open my mouth;
in anger, or wisdom, or such.
Or if I see a similar jacket or hair,
I think for a moment I've found him.
But then I remember,
it's not about "where,"
and I know he's not lost,
he is gone.
I'm just glad that he wasn't alone.