I hear the words from my father.
Not long now. Hours, maybe a day.
And I wouldn’t be there.
I wouldn’t be there to say goodbye.
I think of my mother.
She’s there with you, Grandad.
She’s sitting with you as you fade.
But I’m not there to say goodbye.
I wish I was with you.
I wish I could tell you of everything.
Of the book I wrote, for you.
But I can’t even say goodbye.
I don’t want to leave you.
Please, tell me you know I love you.
Tell me you heard my tears
Because I’m not there to say goodbye.
It’s finally Spring, now.
Your wife’s birthday is tomorrow.
Do you remember, Grandad?
Or will she have to say goodbye?
And I’m sitting at home.
Fifty miles or more away from you.
But with every letter I type:
I’m trying to say goodbye.