My father, Harvey C. Casey, committed suicide on July 23, 2002 after a bout of depression. He was found down in the cow pasture he loved so much, his father's shotgun cradled in his arm. Always the strong defender and provider, my family was shocked and bewildered by his action—I miss him so much. My brother Tim, who actually saw the cow funeral a few days after Daddy died, was the inspiration for this poem.

A solid week of rain since the day you died…
the year-long drought that worried you so slightly appeased.
You would have said, "Now, that's right damn ironical, isn't it?"

I walk deep into the pasture, now blindingly silent, fresh, and green
to visit that worn-out old black truck,
now permanently parked under your resting oak—the one that survived every storm. 
This is where you're found.

But I'm an interloper here.
Others have chosen this late afternoon for a funeral of their own.
They're gathered, standing three to a pew, around the abandoned Ford.
Heads lowered, reverential, still as a manger scene,
ear-splittingly bewildered by surrender, they mourn the loss of their old man.

Rusties, Whities, Blackies, Brownies—the fifteen Herefords and Angus,
survivors of the recent, most drastic thinning of the herd.
I kneel apart, unnoticed—thankful for this still life.
Here, you always felt closest to God.
This, most befitting of all the memorials, would have been your favorite.

Copyright 2003 Julee Casey Johnson. All rights reserved.

About the author: Julee C. Johnson was attempting to write a series of short stories about her father, Harvey's childhood, based on his memoirs, at the time of his death. This poem demanded to be written during a Creative Writing class in February 2003. Julee is in the process of compiling a memory book about her father, and has received many wonderful letters from those who know him.