by EJ Young

Created on: April 11, 2011   Last Updated: January 13, 2012

Her bony fingers seemed to pet the Book clutched close. The words soothed her. Whispering the lyrical verse wrapped her up in comfort.

To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: A time to be born, and a time to die…

She sank back, the pillow covering her scars like a too-small Band-Aid. I’ve had my time; blessed with 30 years, she smiled.

Interrupting her thoughts, Clara, the weekend assistant, used her too-sweet patronizing voice, “Any questions?” Her fake manner seemed even less appropriate than her 70’s style beehive. 

“I wanna ask you again, hon.  Doncha wanna call somebody so you’re not alone?” compassion quickly faded.

The quiet strength seemed reassuring. “I am not alone. God is with me always. I get lonely sometimes but I am not alone. But, thanks for thinking of me, ma’am.”

“I’ll swing by later,” Clara droned.  “Check the box for autopsy/no autopsy. They gotta know all that when you donate your body. Specially with yer rare brain cancer.”

A few miles away her cruddy fingernails stumbled to punch in G-5 on the dingy jukebox. Memories of the Byrd’s song haunted her. Choking down another late morning beer, she slurred the words slicing the guilt even deeper.

To Everything (Turn, Turn, Turn), There is a season (Turn, Turn, Turn), And a time to every purpose, under Heaven…

“Hey, Ms. Nima! Need one yet?” the old bartender hollered. She’d probably be short. It was worth a couple coins to get her past her torment. 

“I ain’t in the mood to listen to yer bitchin’ about Bible thumpers. Drink up.”

Something about this empty woman kept nagging at him. She looked the part of a homeless drunk but she seemed too raw, too real, too deep.

Flipping on the TV, Butch stirred his virgin bloody Mary. Like a diehard karaoke fan, she sang those lyrics over and over. Sang ‘em like she wrote ‘em or was cursed with ‘em.

Meeting Butch’s stare, she gushed, “Big guy like you? Don’t you already know?” The thick tongue couldn’t disguise the confidence.

“Know what?” Butch asked.

“How the Bible says there’s a reason,” she almost shouted. “ Yup, sure is a reason, it’s called a big effin’ excuse.”

“What are ya talking about lady?” Butch thought she might explode.

“Holy rollers flock together like cowards. Sure, kids get punched, parents get mangled, good people die  young. What the hell!” her words drifted.

Maybe she ain’t too far gone for some help.  He had to try. Maybe his conscience. Maybe his guilt. There had to be a reason she picked his bar.  He sipped, stared and mulled.

Nobody noticed Clara’s mug hogging the spotlight on the local news. She read, “…It’s deductible to donate to the brain cancer foundation...”

“I held her hand when she passed. She didn’t have no family. I guess her folks got killed. Sister was drivin’.”

The story ended as the camera zoomed in on the stone:

Christine Olivia Nima

1981-2011

“To everything there is a season”

King James Bible Ecclesiastes 3:1

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