Tim by Turner Wibbelsman

Every summer, dad’s friend
would return home from Alaska,
having worked the king crab
seasons, toughing the ice
and brute of the Bering Sea,
those massive hands
calloused thick from nylon
nets and steel winches, blood
left behind, washed through
the bulwark drainage slits
to mix with that dark sea.

And we could hear the diesel
engine long before the pick-up
pulled in the back driveway—
running barefoot across the wet
yard, my brother and I shouldering
the large white cooler, its ice sloshing
our long-awaited treasures.

Unhinging rubber latches,
we lifted that great lid,
thick as my fist, having held
the north Pacific chill
across all those long states,
finally released onto grinning faces
as we plucked king crabs
from the ice-water, hands
wincing from brief
submersion and shell points
pressing into soft palms—
our small price to pay.

And as the crabs cooked,
we laid newspaper
on the porch table, set out
wooden mallets and peered
under the green grill lid
until our feast was ready
to be dumped on the table—
sitting on our knees so we
could reach across the pile,
finding that greatest red claw.

Years later, I received
news that he had suddenly
passed, traveler’s soul approaching
the strange final destination,
flying down the parkway
with June’s sweet air filling
the truck cab, having weathered
winter at sea, bringing the world’s
regal gift back home.



Turner Wibbelsman is a graduate of the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and former editor of UNC's Health Humanities Journal. He plans to attend medical school in the future.