Fifty-Six When by Max Wallis

Fifty-six when his father died, last-gasped in a stale white bed with half a bunch of grapes for company.
Fifty-six when the woman with blackened eyes who couldn’t talk anymore, or breathe, from smoking still clung to life whilst his father disappeared.
Fifty-six when his father slip-dropped out of life, his bone-pale finger still circled by wedding silver, eyes shut-clamped and dry.
Fifty-six when his father became a whisper on the tongue of mourning friends and loved ones, hushed in a tiny room as the coffin vanished away.
Fifty-six when he attended his father’s wake in the house that childhood built.
Fifty-six when he went upstairs and ripped, one by one, each drawer and cubbyhole apart, tears draining all his numbness, searching for a tiny part of him to keep.