Four weeks since we said goodbye,
and still I haven’t learnt to cry.
The forms are done, the calls have stopped,
your house is cleared, the keys are dropped.
I’m sat here on the sofa alone,
Diesel beside me, kids at home.
Laura is out, the daylight’s bright,
but everything in me feels like night.
It started sometime in the summer,
one word that changed us all forever.
Cancer in your lungs, terminal too,
and deep down, Mum, I think you knew.
You’d smoked for years, that was your vice,
but knowing why don’t make it right.
A bit of radiotherapy came,
but no real chance to stop the pain.
No chemo offered, nothing more,
just doctors talking by the door.
We drove to Birmingham for RSO,
chasing a chance we couldn’t let go.
But you couldn’t take it, made you ill,
and cancer carried on there still.
Big JG, once loud and strong,
was getting smaller all day long.
You made your peace before we could,
faced the end the way you would.
You held a living wake instead,
said your goodbyes before you were dead.
You laughed with people, drank and spoke,
still found a reason for a joke.
While all of us were falling through,
you somehow made it easier too.
Then came that fucking morning.
I walked inside and called your name,
but nothing in that house felt the same.
I found you on the bathroom floor,
half naked, thin, beside the door.
A skeleton where Mum had been,
still breathing, but not waking in.
I had no time to shake or grieve,
no space to stop, no chance to breathe.
I got you dressed with shaking hands,
did what the moment would demand.
Then lifted you across my back,
because that’s what sons do when life turns black.
I carried you out and to my car,
though Dove House wasn’t very far.
The longest drive I’ve ever made,
watching what cancer took away.
You spent your final few days there,
with tired eyes and thinning hair.
We gathered close, we held your hand,
all trying hard to understand.
On the day you died I wet your lips
with John Smith’s bitter, tiny sips.
A taste you knew, a final drop,
while each breath slowed and almost stopped.
But still you held on, waited there,
like someone missing from your chair.
Danny was driving from down south,
and you refused to check out.
Then Danny came and took his place,
you seemed to know, you seemed at peace.
Richard, Ben and Becky too,
all five of us were there with you.
Then one last breath left from your chest,
and finally, Mum, you let yourself rest.
No drama, no loud final sound,
just all your children gathered round.
Everyone broke their separate way.
I gave myself more jobs that day.
Youngest of five, but still somehow,
it all came down to me right now.
Maybe because from ten years old,
I’d looked after you when life turned cold.
Maybe you knew I wouldn’t run,
I’d see each awful job was done.
I took the estate, I made the calls,
sorted the money, emptied walls.
Organised the funeral through,
because there was no one else but you.
Well, there were others, grieving too,
and everyone does what they must do.
So I stayed busy, head kept straight,
dealing with death, bills and fate.
I cleared your house almost alone,
every drawer a piece of home.
Old photographs and clothes you wore,
each one hurting slightly more.
A mug, a coat, a birthday card,
things that shouldn’t hit that hard.
But ordinary things cut deep
when they’re the only things you keep.
I planned your funeral, chose each part,
while something tore apart my heart.
Then watched your coffin move away,
and knew the fire would have its say.
Now somewhere there are ashes left,
and I’m here sorting what comes next.
The inheritance still needs to land,
another job placed in my hands.
Four weeks gone and daylight’s here,
but grief has finally found me clear.
No more houses left to clear,
no more jobs to hide the fear.
The kids are quiet, Laura’s out,
so there’s no one here to ask about
the way I’m breaking piece by piece,
now being busy’s finally ceased.
I’m scared to tell her I’m not right,
that I’m not strong every day and night.
Scared she’ll think I’m somehow weak,
so I bite my tongue and do not speak.
I stroke Diesel, stare ahead,
he rests his weight against my leg.
Like somehow he already knows
I’m falling where nobody goes.
I tell myself to crack on still,
because you taught me that stubborn will.
That’s why you left this all to me,
you knew I’d do what had to be.
You knew I’d carry every load,
walk every mile of that final road.
You knew I’d sort it, not complain,
then sit alone and take the pain.
I don’t want money.
I don’t want praise.
I don’t want hearing how well I’ve braved
the worst few months I’ve ever had,
trying to be strong while feeling sad.
I’d trade the car, the cash, the lot,
for one more brew in your usual spot.
One more laugh, one more daft row,
one more chance to tell you now.
I don’t need thanks for what I’ve done.
I was your boy before your son
became the man who saw things through.
I just want Big JG back.
I just want you.