5:43 (Repost)
5:43 pm. Such an odd number. I like round numbers: 5:30, 6:00, even 5:45 has a certain balance to it. 5:43 is crooked, twisted, ugly.
They should have been home at 5:30. Dinner was in the oven. Shrimp and scallops with tomato and spinach. Herbed pearl couscous. I even made a pie. They’d been begging for one. I kept saying no, wait till Thanksgiving. But I made it.
It’s still sitting on the counter. The casserole dish with the shrimp and scallops is still on the floor by the wall where I threw it after the police rang the bell. After I ran to the door thinking they forgot the key or had their arms full of flowers or bags or just felt like making me run to the door. After I opened the door, smiling at the officer, asking if I could help him, before, I took in the hat in the hand, and the sorrowful eyes. After I screamed no or please or just screamed as the officer stepped in and helped me while I cried and he explained that there had been an accident. That a truck had lost control and crushed the car my son drove with my husband as they came home from work. That they had died instantly.
“Is there anyone I can call for you, ma’am?”
My neighbor heard the screaming, I guess, and came running in that moment. The officer, relieved, gave her some information and left.
She walked me in to the house, holding me.
I smelled dinner.
I ran to the kitchen, took it out of the oven and threw it against the wall. The clock fell, too.
It was 5:43.
Time & Seasons
Season: mid of winter
Days were short and gray
Forecast called for weather
Snow and ice that day
Sunrise; early morning
Driving in to work
Lost control and swerving
Gripped the wheel and jerked
Colliding with a truck;
Of heavy duty tonnage
Her fragile vessel stuck
In the crumpled, metal wreckage
Seconds after that
A phone call; 911
Fire crews departed
And drove into the sun
With breakfast on the stove
A knock upon the door
Her mother in her robe
Collapsed onto the floor
Minutes seemed like hours
As they drove through slush and snow
Believing in prayer’s power
Her tears spoke; head hung low
Doctors described trauma
Closed head wound; life support
She’d slipped into a coma
Her outcome looked quite poor
Calling for a vigil;
Sunset, late that day
Pleading; life so fragile
“Heal her wounds” they’d pray
Night fell on their tears
They weren’t dreaming; it was true
Living their worst fears
Still, hoping for good news
The sun would rise and fall
Three more times and then
They’d make the dreaded call
Her life would find its end
But first, she’d save six lives
With the organs she would give
A gift; her sacrifice
Because she died, they’d live
Lined each side; the hallway
Walk of Honor; soul so precious
Dues they all would pay
As they wheeled her by in silence
Every breath was held
For a moment, time was stilled
Their pounding hearts did melt
As an ocean, tears then filled
Season: time to harvest
Her gifts of life she gave
Most beautiful, her sunset
And sunrise on that day
And hope of her loved ones
In her death, they can find reason
For everything under the sun
There is a time and season
Based upon the true story of Corrin Linkowski
Photo Credit: Craig Sterken Photography
