I.
She’ll drive through the parking lot
at quarter past eight tonight;
but first she’ll put up the gravy
and throw away salad.
There is something amiss with the sun.
The angle through the window,
she’s never noticed it on
her plate before
because by now
they were usually seated in the den
where the sun would greet them there,
not here.
It’s not like him to be late.
She worries while she sits,
waits a little longer,
watches the sun slide over
the edge of the table
and drift toward the empty den.
She feels as if she’s
stepped off a spaceship
after landing on a different planet
and the simple act of breathing
requires exaggerated effort.
She looks around at nothing that’s familiar.
She gets up and clears the plates,
feeds the dog, loads the wash
then heads for the door.
Its no surprise
she finds his car parked
in space 138.
The same place he always parks
when he goes for a run.
She shakes her head
and checks her watch,
confused by the clock
on the dash, 8:31 pm.
It doesn’t make sense.
25 years of routine behavior
makes her think that it is morning.
He parks in space 138
in the morning.
Troubled by her fractured norm
she calls 911 and waits for
the police to arrive.
They tell her that they found a man
and ask her to go with them but
she cannot, or will not go with them
to identify a dead man,
lifeless on a concrete slab
in a cold city basement
under blue neon buzz
above refrigerated drawers.
They will need to find another way
to break her heart tonight.
She refuses to hear what happened,
how a mental patient ran from
behind a tree and hacked him
with a rusty machete.
She will not go with them,
she will not listen to their story,
she will not turn on the television,
she will not speak to anyone but
she will hang on to routine.
She will hold it tightly
for as long as she can.
II.
On a random Saturday at 5:15
she rushes to prepare dinner by 5:30.
At 5:35 she stares at the kitchen clock,
the one they calibrate with Greenwich
once a month.
At 5:36 she takes off her apron,
folds it carefully so as not to wrinkle it,
wipes a bead of sweat from her upper lip
and wonders if its menopause.
Her heart is racing as
she jumps at the sound of the telephone.
When she hangs up she is calm.
The coroner has confirmed.
She heads toward the back door,
spots her keys on the left hook while
the right hook sits empty
and she begins to cry.
She takes her keys into the garage
but leaves her purse behind.
She won’t be driving anywhere tonight.
She starts the car,
leaves it running and gets out,
lies down on the cold cement floor,
curls into a fetal position and
slowly drifts toward sleep.
She finally admits the truth.
He sleeps on cold cement as well.
A very sad story that has stayed with me now for several weeks... I wake up thinking about it, I am haunted by this story..
http://www.dallasnews.com/news/metro/20151027-for-wife-of-white-rock-slaying-victim-pain-was-unbearable.ece