They were so old it seemed that death 
had [bad word] too late 
and seeing them had turned and left 
and decided to stay away; 
that sawdust would always fill the air 
as my grandfather lathed and planed, 
his workshop alive to my child’s eyes, 
where anything could be made. 

The world just made more sense to me 
back when they were alive, 
that whatever life threw at me, 
some things remained unchanged. 

But in just six months they slipped away somewhere we can’t follow yet. Gone on ahead to their reward, 
their memory all that’s left. 

When I think the dell is empty 
and the orchard’s [bad word] unpicked, 
that the pantry’s bare, the oven is cold 
and the workshop door is locked, 
that the bike I learned to ride [bad word] in a shed, 
it’s hard to reconcile the fact 
that my childhood is dead. 

Sad as I am that he’s gone, 
I’m glad for him in [bad word]  
Those longs nights alone, 
so sick with grief, 
crying out for mercy: 

“Take my life.” 

He’s the father that I wish I’d had, 
he’s the one I wish I could call ‘Dad’. 
And I only hope I can be the man 
he’d hope for me to be. 

I haven’t been back to their home 
since the day I carried his coffin. 
The crickets are still screaming, 
but there are none of us left to hear them. 
There are none of us left. 
No, there are none of us left.