POST-SCRIPT                                                                       

I have not, until now, tried to write about him –

our father who ought to be in Heaven –

save for a brief description of a man’s face

shortly after death. It could have been anyone’s face,

a man of any faith, no clear trace of religion,

no “about to go somewhere” face – just a

cold, grey hue, the colour of a statue, as

still as a statue, yet no solid look – more like

the delicately shaped ash of a fire gone cold,

long before it was ever old.

 

Ought to be in Heaven? Not a bad man but,

yes, a sad man: a man unrewarded for his

loyalty to lowly small scale sales of

office tat, of this and that, ten shilling lunches

for likely sources of ordinary orders.

And in the depths of family dysfunction, he

spoke to his customers, not so much to us;

lonely at home where there lay in wait, each night,

the itch of cash being tight, in so slow motion;

being passed over for promotion.

 

He rarely shared the pain, so found no ally, no

tie to others, no bond on which he might rely

to live a private life that cocked a snook at

the tawdry world outside, where he might hide

and find succour, perhaps even love of a kind.

As it was, I remember, mostly, ghost-cold indoor

freezes, heated by rows, the children in bed,

frightened by the thought that frustration might

lead to blows. One time they did, in front of us all,

in front of black flies on the wall.

 

Mother says he made himself ill through worry,

a sorry end to a sorry life, strife at each turn,

leaving earthly happiness aside, hoping for

some paradise at the end of it all; but

the end, once it began, was long and no-one knew

what it was – save him, who felt it deep, deep within,

saw the wood for the trees and knew he would leave

this beaten life early, the burly Reaper on his way,

scythe sharp as tongues. We heard his moans,

we heard the shrieking whetstone.

 

So there we are, the morning after, by the slab,

thinking of waxworks, because the nurses had

fiddled with the lines on his face – nearly enough for us to ask,

silently, is that him, surely some mistake?

A doubt for a second only, as his name is on a band,

around his wrist, in case he goes missing, perhaps?

Now he’s in the queue for those due to be readied,

for the fire or the earth. He is cold now but is down for

the fire – some colour at last (a wry irony at best),

until ash settles white and nothing else left.