Raindrops fall down on the tin roof just as the fiddler plays his song. Hearing the pit-pat I can’t fall asleep. The city is dead, but the dull streetlights shine on, the eerie glow barely penetrating my bedroom curtain. I roll over and look at the clock, in giant green numbers 4:12 is shown; I stare into it and watch it change, 4:13. Amazed I just sit there lying in bed letting time slip through the weak grip I have. Every second, of every minute, of every day–gone, gone like the fall leaves in the brisk wind–gone.
Frustrated, I get out of bed, throw on some clothes, and decide to walk down to the diner on 4th Street. I’m a regular there and most of the staff knows my name. Always greeted with a smile, I get the same thing every day, hot tea and three pancakes. Never being there this early though, I’m hesitant to enter. I know it’s the same cheery place I usually enjoy the morning paper to, but it seems odd this early.
I walk in, greeted with a sign that says, “Please seat yourself.” Finding my usual spot right on the corner window, I slide into the booth and glance around. The waitress comes over to take my order; I can tell she works the dead shift, the big black bags under her eyes told me she didn’t want this job, but needed it. I ask politely for a cup of tea with some pancakes and ease into my usual spot. The green light still shone a 4:12 in my head, the image burned into my brain. What was it for? Why 4:12? Interrupted, the tea was dropped on the table.
I replied with a quick thank you, she stuttered a bit with her body language, but managed to spit one back. I could tell she doesn’t get complimented much. I felt bad for her; I didn’t know her situation, it couldn’t have been very good though if she was waiting tables at the local diner at 4 am, poor girl.
My thoughts go back to 4:12 and again I’m reminded that I only got 3 hours of needed sleep, having the job I do, you can’t expect to get much. 4:12, such an insignificant number, why has it ingrained itself in my head. I decide who lives and dies on a daily basis, yet I can’t control my own thoughts?
I breathe out; it wasn’t one of those short meaningless exhales, but rather one of expulsion, as if to try to cleanse myself of everything inside of me. That helped a little, it brought some peace into my body for a few moments. Before I knew it, my waitress was back with the pancakes and that always pleasing half smile.
“Need anything else?” she bluntly stated. Still thinking of the morning’s events I felt the need to ask.
“What does 4:12 mean to you?” I asked haphazardly. She looked at me with fearful eyes:
“4:12, as in the time?” she softly replied back, her body beginning to softly show signs of emotion.
“Yes, ma’am, the time.”
“That’s the time my mother died last night. You see, it happened last fall. She was battling cancer when at 4:12 she finally let go, I was devastated. She was fine for 8 years then all of a sudden she went into shock. It’s amazing how quick life turns to death.”
I managed to squeak out a thank you. Who knew such an odd time would have such a large impact. That’s when I understood what 4:12 meant, that’s when it all made sense. It could all be taken a way; every second, of every minute, of every day–gone, gone like the fall leaves in the brisk wind–gone.
Chris Kordick
