2022 / poetry / author
KARESE BURROWS
DEATH IS SLOWLY
AGEING BACKWARDS
…
I remember that day, watching my Father’s
brain steadily lose oxygen. Standing in the
kitchen doorway with my sister while my
mother called out his name, the sound of
Chris!, Christopher! being sung like a plea
to coax him back to life. In the ambulance,
when they asked him how old he was, he
slurred, Seventeen. I remember thinking
then, maybe death comes with a heavy tongue.
Maybe it is the act of sluggishly forgetting
who we are, of slowly ageing backwards.
Either way, I wish that cars were time machines.
That I could close my eyes, curl my fists into
tiny rockets and propel myself through time
to any moment when my Father still existed.
I do not know how to write a poem explaining
what it’s like to watch your own Father have
a stroke. To sometimes stare at a dusky, threadbare
couch and only see the mirage of a parent who
slipped away while you weren’t looking. When
people ask me how I am, I don’t tell them that
I can still hear his mumbled, I love you from
behind his oxygen mask. That my room is an
echo chamber of all the times I’ve cried for my
dead Father. That some nights I can’t help but
vividly remember the day I crumpled like paper
beneath my sheets, bedroom door closed off to
the world just so I could drown in the ocean of my
heartbreak in peace. Somedays, when I think of
him, I think of hospital rooms. Of white walls
and white chairs. Of old, broken windows and
rusted, overused beds. My last glimpse of my
Father was him aged backwards, coffined in a
light sky blue. Three years later and this poem
is the first time I’ve written about him since
then. Sometimes grief is mute. Sometimes it is
a cobblestone lodged deeply in the throat.