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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
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
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