Sometimes we catch calls that grab us by the gut and then pull and tug until our emotions are ripped out by their roots. This was one of those calls.
I Want To Go Home
“I want to go home. I want to go home. I. Want. To. Go. Home.”
“Those are the only words she’s spoken in years, Officer.”
“The last time we saw her she was wearing a blue nightgown. She was ready for bed.”
“Yes, all the doors were locked. Well, with the exception of the front door. That’s the one visitors use. But it’s monitored.”
“Please hurry. It’s really cold out. And she’s terrified of the dark.”
“No, she hasn’t had a visitor in over a year. Even her daughter stopped coming by.”
“I suppose we’d searched for an hour or so before we called you.”
“No, sir. Nothing yet.”
“Yes, sir. The dogs are on the way.”
“It’s starting to snow.”
As many civilian volunteers.
More on the way.
The best in the business.
Snowing hard, sideways.
Missing for several hours.
Temperatures dip to zero, and then a bit below.
Command post. Hot coffee.
Warmth for frigid hands and numb toes.
“I’ve found her …”
Litter, scattered about.
The old woman, nearly ninety.
In the snow.
Glasses half on, half off.
Blue lights flittering and dancing among falling pieces of frozen lace.
Snowflakes on a wrinkled face.
“I guess she finally made it home.”