We entered that same room for months, the anatomy lab, the one that held our path to knowledge and our unspoken fears. All of us were first year medical students. Each of us idealistic and following our dream of becoming a doctor.

The room was cold, deliberately cold. We wore long sleeve shirts and socks even though it was the height of summer. The acrid smell of formaldehyde immediately flared our nostrils and stung our eyes. Tiled floors with drains, stark walls, rows of soft mounds beneath white sheets. Everything white except for the grey of stainless-steel tables, the ones with wheels we locked to prevent their slipping. I took my assigned position beside the table. Me on the right, William, a fellow student, on the left.

I remember the first day of class, the day I suggested we give our cadaver a name. Some small way to remember her personhood, a context for her calloused hands. William reluctantly agreed until I suggested we call her Thusia, after the Greek word for sacrifice. He grimaced with a furrowed brow and then just stared at me.

“OK, how about Florence?”

He conceded with a quick shrug of his shoulders and a nod. And then, for all those months that followed, I wondered, who was she? What was her dream? Perhaps she lived alone, widowed young, unable to have children. Instead, she became a generous aunt to her niece and nephews. Perhaps she hadn’t gone to college but occasionally tried her best in high school. Maybe she was the fastest typist in the Secretarial Skills class. Still, she would be too shy to interview for the school’s office job. She was always waiting for the special moments to arrive. The “what ifs.” Driving an ice cream truck. Winning the church lottery. A postcard in the mail. While she waited, she turned on the television and cared more about what happened on As the World Turns than in her own life.

Of course, she worked. She had to. Thanks to that elementary school flyer, the one posted on the Safeway grocery store bulletin board, in need of a cafeteria helper. Someone to serve hot lunches to the children. She could do that, smile and encourage children to ask for what they wanted. Green beans or french fries. She could be of service. Really when you thought about it, she had wanted that all her life but just couldn’t figure out the “how” exactly. It felt odd for her to admit it. She wanted to contribute.

So, when she turned sixty-five and the young attendant at the Secretary of State asked if she would like to be an organ donor, it got her thinking. Why not? And later that month, when she was making out her will, she imagined all the expenses of a funeral and how she couldn’t expect her little sister to come up with money she didn’t have. It was then and there, she decided to donate her body to science. That’s it! Finally, a way to honor the importance of having lived her simple life. It was inspiring, even to her family.

And so, when the tightness squeezed in her chest and the cold sweat gathered on her brow, she pulled the lever of her easy chair, pushed back to allow her feet to rise, closed her eyes and let go without fear. She knew where she was going.

I lifted the sheet and softly called her Florence.

Katherine Roth’s poetry has been published in the Wild Root Journal, Walloon Writers Review, Open Palm Print and the Peninsula Poets of the Poetry Society of Michigan. She is the co-author of the memoir The Good Fight: A Story of Love, Cancer and Triumph, which was a featured selection of the National Writers Series. Her poetry collection, Unforgotten, was published by Mission Point Press. She lives in Traverse City, Michigan, where she works as a physician dedicated to the study and practice of Integrative Medicine.