Time Travel

“Time of death, 11:22 PM,” I heard them say.

The doctor stepped out of my wife’s room, he looked at me sympathetically and told me she was gone. The love of my life was no more. I nodded slowly and gave him a look that meant “I was ready,” because I had been preparing for this for the past two years. The past six months, really. Still, I began to cry.

When my tears ran dry, I looked at my watch, it was 11:27. Five minutes after her death I was thinking I had to be strong. Strong to carry myself across the grieving period. Time heals. I just have to make it to the other end.

How long is it going to be? I did not know. 11:28.

I went into her room, she was covered with a white sheet. They were wheeling out the machines, they needed them somewhere else. Still 11:28.

I called her sister. They were never very close, but still, the sister should know. I think I woke her up. I apologized and told her. She was sorry. 11:29.

I had nobody else to call, so I talked to the nurse asking what I should do next. She said they would take the body down to the morgue. They could contact the funeral home to take care of everything. 11:29.

I thanked her and stepped out into the hallway. It was long and painfully bright. There was a man dressed as a sad clown at the other end. He was holding red balloons. Dozens of red balloons. 11:30.

Posted by: Paweł Kowaluk