Untitled, Sevigne Pak ’18

Untitled

Sevigne Pak ’18

She left seven years ago.

From the shrill dismissal bell to the arrival of the bus at the bus stop: three hundred and sixty seconds with Mississippi’s, two hundred and seventyeight without. A mile ride to the hospital, past four tired traffic lights, the last one always a silent red. He had learned the name of the bus driver, Sue, and that everything could be quantified.

Two tumors in the right lining of her lungs, one on the left. Twenty six seconds alone with her before the doctor came in, enough time for one kiss on the cheek and a tear to well up in his eyes, like water at the end of a pipet held by trembling hands.

Seven years ago, he had followed the cracked yellow lines to hands that used to love him; the left index nail always shorter than the rest, because she couldn’t help picking at them. The hand holding the pipet had shaken violently.