Strange, these after-your-father-dies days
when too-tired-for-life you wonder if you ever
really believed in God or just believed in Dad.
Lately, for me, I’ve leaned toward the latter.
John Dunne’s (the other one) fierce novel
Dutch Shea, Jr. concludes with this credo:
“I believe in Cat. I believe in God.”
Dutch’s daughter, Cat—killed by an IRA bomb.
Could I have believed in God had I not had
the kind of father I had for fifty-four years?
Like most things, it’s hard to say for certain.
Like most of us, we’re not looking for answers
so much as reaching for a hand hold, something
on the day’s sheer face to crimp or pinch,
an edge to keep your life from tumbling down.
I believe in Dad. I believe in God.