I wrote this a while after my Dad passed away, and I just dug it up the other day. I hadn't looked at this in a long time.

Still Here
September/October 1993

In my room, I sit in a lamplight pool
surrounded by shadow. On my desk is
a less than full glass of scotch and water.
Mister Vaughan Williams' The Lark Ascending
ethereally hovers in the air.
Night has just taken over the clear sky,
and the autumn breathing is light and cool.
I am alone with my Dad. We listen
to the velvet surges and cadences
of the strings, savoring our bitter drink.

My work lies untouched as we sit and muse,
but it seems unimportant at this time;
my Dad and I are in conversation.
Our rapport is always getting better.
I have a picture of him hugging Mom;
the momento reminds me of parents
I do not see as often as I would.
Especially Dad--especially Dad...
I have not seen him in a span of time.
But as if he never left, here he is.

The rest of the world, its little concerns
leave our minds for a time, and it is nice.
Such moments do not happen every day.
I think he is happy to be with me,
and I appreciate this time with him.

His body failed quite some time before this
night of a scotch and a hovering Lark,
but we can still talk and drink together.
In such times, we are just closer, that's all,
because everything he was, is still here.