One Catastrophic Stroke

One Catastrophic Stroke
Christopher Bogart

The house had a strange smell as I entered it for the first time
Since my mother’s catastrophic stroke.
That’s what the doctors called it. Catastrophic.
So serious, it seemed, when I first heard the word,
that it sounded to me like a ship lost at sea,
a town swallowed up in an earthquake,
a fire that left only blackened wood and white floating ash.

The house had a strange smell,
not like the smells of the family that once lived in it.
Not like the smells of roast beef, pan-fried potatoes and onion gravy.
Not like the smell of Borkum Riff pipe tobacco, or of laundry soap.
Just the strange smell of loss.

The family treasures, the legacy of a life lived together, now just so much clutter.
The detritus left of our lives together- a life now gone forever.
My father, long departed, sleeping peacefully at Holy Cross Cemetery.
My mother, in the Reformed Church Home, unable to move or speak.
My sister, sitting in the car, parked at the curb in front of the house.
And me, staring around at the clutter of a life lost to age,
To infirmity, to death.
Just clutter,
Stillness,
and catastrophic silence.