WHAT IT WAS.

ON THE DEATH OF A PARTNER'S FATHER IN 1975.

What it was,
was her father dying.

Part of her
had died, too,
she said.

I had been phoned
by her son,
Mum's in a state,
he said;
Granddad's passed away.

I got back as soon
as I could, train and taxi,
driver yakking
about the weather,
and his holiday
on the never never.

And there she was
on our bed,
half undressed,
half not,
gazing at the wall
or window
or so seemed.

He's gone,
she said
without turning
her head,
suddenly it was,
Mum said,
just like that.

She whimpered gently,
sobs escaping
like bees in spring.

I sat on the bed
and stroked her thigh,
saying words, words
meaning nothing,
but trying to comfort,
but failing
as words do.

Will there be
a requiem mass?
I asked.

She paused a sob.

Suppose,
she said,
turning her head,
her red rimmed
eyes staring,
he was a catholic
of sorts, but of sorts
passed caring.

Her father was dead.

I knew him
hardly at all,
a meeting or so
and drinks the once,
few words, Irish lilt,
supping his beer.

I loved him,
she said,
he was my rock,
my anchor.

I knew
they rowed a lot.

The same
in temperament,
outlook, non diplomatic,
eye to eye, unblinking.

She turned away
to face the wall,
the sobs returning,
her body moving
to an inner grief.

I sat gazing
at her turned
away head,
part of her jaw
and cheek.

What it was,
was her father dying,
she wanting
to see him again,
but not believing.