Three Weeks Later

This morning I was thinking of a conversation I had with my father three weeks before he died, seven and a half years ago, and I remembered I wrote a poem about it. Strange how you speak straight from the heart, without thinking anything out beforehand, when someone you love is dying.

<sup>Three Weeks Later

"Something’s come over me," he said.
Three weeks later he was dead.
"I don’t believe in anything," he said.
Three weeks later he was dead.
"I don’t want to do anything," he said.
Three weeks later he was dead.
"I don’t think anything matters," he said.
Three weeks later he was dead.
"You think things matter," he said
And I paused and scratched my head.
"Most of the things that we think matter," I replied
Just three weeks before he died
"Don’t matter in the least," I sighed
Just three weeks before he died.
"But some things matter," I replied
Just three weeks before he died.
"And there is never nothing," I replied
Just three weeks before he died
"There is always something," I replied
Just three weeks before he died
"So I believe in something," I sighed
Just three weeks before he died
"Even if I don’t know what that something is," I said.
Three weeks later he was dead.
"Yes," he said. "There’s always that."
And that concluded our little chat
And I like to think that discourse gave
Something he took with him to the grave.


© Geoff Davis 2003</sup>