I sat beside him as he cooled.
I touched his hand and stroked his head.
Death had come an hour before.
They placed him on a hospital bed.

I found him on the bathroom floor.
There was no pulse or breathing sound.
He collapsed behind the wooden door.
There was nobody else around.

I never got to say good-bye.
When I found him he had expired.
I had said mean things that day
when understanding was required.

I looked at his now quiet face,
devoid of any living glow.
I leaned and kissed his now cold brow,
and said, “Bye Dad. It’s time to go.”

As I drove home I thought of all
the things I wished I would have said.
I reached my house all numb inside
and collapsed into my unmade bed.

Years later I can see his face.
I ask forgiveness when I pray.
My eyes still tear when I recall
the many things I did not say.