The Darkest Hour

It wasn’t
the darkest hour
when I found out
he died.

I prayed
it was merely
a week-long nightmare
from which
I’d awaken.

Still,
I’d cried, laughed
written a eulogy
but mostly
that week
I held my breath
magically thinking
I’d awaken
and not be
fatherless.

The darkest hour
came later
when my widowed mother
couldn’t bear
to let anyone
go home.

The funeral was done.
The reception was finished.
Her house was empty.

Crushed
by the weight
of his absence
the darkest hour
that started
in 1999

still isn’t finished
yet.