5:43

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.