A Saturday Night

My old man died on a Saturday night
I watched as he just stopped breathing
And though it was awful and painful and sad
I was glad that he wasn't alone

It felt like something he'd just had to go through;
An arduous task he'd been given
And it seemed so unfair it was his cross to bear;
The sickest and weakest of us

Oh, we never spoke much as a father and son
But we had an understanding
And I still hear his voice when I open my mouth;
In anger, or wisdom, or such

Or if I see a similar jacket or hair
I think for a moment I've found him
But then I remember
It's not about "where,"
And I know he's not lost
He is gone
I'm just glad that he wasn't alone