The day my father died, the drawn curtains became a casket. My mother became too familiar to hold his whole attention. The bitter hope in his step became a memory. Life came and went with no outside sympathies. He paled under factory lights, under the sun's neglect. I was the first to find the body he left behind when he packed up everything he found futile. My still-breathing father taught me that grief and a dripping faucet have a lot in common.
Still, I like to imagine my childhood was thrown in the same briefcase by mistake. That is still sits somewhere, waiting to be found by someone who knows how to replay our late night conversations and skip the rest; he left behind a broken-record poet by the steps. I don't know how to live a day dedicated to the present.
I love like my father. The day he died, he went without a sound, choking on pacifying cruelties from strangers. He stopped trying to escape a life that suffocates him. The light stopped reaching his eyes.
I love like my father. He died the day he stopped watching passing cars. He caught me escaping, once; fourteen, skin and bones, guilt in my shoulders. He told me that he hoped I got out. He told me he hoped I became nothing like him.
And yet, I still love like my father; I see my mother's open arms and hear the rattling of chains. I see a future that reaches for my throat. The day my father died, he exchanged his desperation for something like resolution, pushing the dream into my hand. I fear that I leave its impression on everything I touch. I love like my father; I don't know how to let go of the hand that bites.
eve's note: maybe this is a very niche pain, I don't know. I call my dad every day, and yet, the day he stopped fighting to escape the life he hated, was the first funeral I think I ever attended. as always, love you.
YOU ARE READING
HEAVENLY CORRUPTION
PoetryThe ramblings of a woman who spent too much time in confession and too little time trying to figure out what exactly she was apologizing for.
