“Life can only be understood backwards;
but it must be lived forwards.”— Søren Kierkegaard
In reverse, the red ribbon on the gift box
loosens, it opens, the sterling silver charm
shaped like a trumpet, returns to the charm rack.
The earth above you floats clumsily,
clumsily upward into a mound beneath
the January sun. Another box opens;
your inanimate body slides from the box
into the hospital bed next to me.
In your hospital bed, you turn to me,
your eyes smile, your nose and lips masked.
Your smile hidden beneath the BiPAP mask.
In reverse, the oxygen flows from you
back into the breathing machine. In reverse,
the red ribbon loosens, the box opens.
In reverse, you unwrite your funeral plans,
the ink refills the pen, the notebook paper
blank again. The cap closes the pen.
Facebook messages from two weeks before
untype themselves. Look, this is the time before,
when you’re just at home; and I’m not too far
in Colorado, not too far from you.
You are making one of your sculpted cakes—
a birthday cake or a graduation cake
—one that is taking hours of decorating,
hours of baking, and the deadline is so soon.
In reverse, the frosting reverts
to powdered sugar, the cake to batter.
In reverse, you walk backwards to your bedroom
in the early morning, slip into bed,
pull the quilt to your chin and drift back.
You drift back into a quiet, calm,
oxygen-filled rest. Look closer: your lungs
deflate, inflate; deflate, inflate
in reverse. Look, you are breathing.
Trish Hopkinson is a poet and advocate for the literary arts. You can find her online at SelfishPoet.com. Her poetry has been published in several literary magazines and journals; and her most recent book A Godless Ascends was published by Lithic Press in March 2024. Hopkinson happily answers to labels such as atheist, feminist, and empty nester; and enjoys traveling, live music, and craft beer.
