Sunday evening, September 28...
...an old man is waiting by the window for his wife. She's gone out to buy groceries. Or get cigarettes. Or visit with her mother. Or maybe they'd had an arguement and she'd driven off to regain her temper. Or maybe she'd just gone to put gas in the car so that he didn't have to do that in the morning, because that's the kind of love they share.
But tonight, his wife doesn't come home. He waited until nightfall, in growing fear. Or maybe he was working in his shop and not at the window. Maybe she'd slipped out without telling him, or he'd thought he'd heard her come in already, or maybe time has swum by and he just hadn't noticed how long she'd been gone.
The telephone. Hospital? Police? Who calls the next of kin in these situations? Did she die upon impact, or did he rush to her side to see her suffering into death more slowly? Did she reach for his hand, or was she already gone?
My friend and co-worker Lynda died Sunday night in a single-vehicle accident. She was 62. She has one son, roughly half her age, who is coming home today to help his father cope with this sudden horrible loss. She had a great sense of humour and loved the Blue Jays, but when she won a pair of tickets through work, she gave her ticket to her son so that he could go instead.
Sunday she'd had a day off; I hope she enjoyed the hell out of it before she died. I hope she told her husband how much she loved him; how much she always had and always would love him. I hope she called her son. I hope she spoke to her mother. I hope all those things that I'd like to know I did before I die, but how could she know. How could any of them have known how Sunday would unfold.
Maybe her laundry is unwashed, and her house still needs to be vaccuumed. That's not important; what is important is how numb the store has become; how much she touched us all with her humour and hard work and laughter and steadiness. How hard it will be to fill her place at the lunch room table.
I have to work this evening; I will never again look at the schedule and see Lynda's name, and know at least that's one person I can count on.
My heart and prayers are with her family. May they find comfort and peace in each other, even when there are no answers.
But tonight, his wife doesn't come home. He waited until nightfall, in growing fear. Or maybe he was working in his shop and not at the window. Maybe she'd slipped out without telling him, or he'd thought he'd heard her come in already, or maybe time has swum by and he just hadn't noticed how long she'd been gone.
The telephone. Hospital? Police? Who calls the next of kin in these situations? Did she die upon impact, or did he rush to her side to see her suffering into death more slowly? Did she reach for his hand, or was she already gone?
My friend and co-worker Lynda died Sunday night in a single-vehicle accident. She was 62. She has one son, roughly half her age, who is coming home today to help his father cope with this sudden horrible loss. She had a great sense of humour and loved the Blue Jays, but when she won a pair of tickets through work, she gave her ticket to her son so that he could go instead.
Sunday she'd had a day off; I hope she enjoyed the hell out of it before she died. I hope she told her husband how much she loved him; how much she always had and always would love him. I hope she called her son. I hope she spoke to her mother. I hope all those things that I'd like to know I did before I die, but how could she know. How could any of them have known how Sunday would unfold.
Maybe her laundry is unwashed, and her house still needs to be vaccuumed. That's not important; what is important is how numb the store has become; how much she touched us all with her humour and hard work and laughter and steadiness. How hard it will be to fill her place at the lunch room table.
I have to work this evening; I will never again look at the schedule and see Lynda's name, and know at least that's one person I can count on.
My heart and prayers are with her family. May they find comfort and peace in each other, even when there are no answers.