Morning Rounds

Voices are silenced and

breaths are held.

Chests tighten

as our bodies float to the corner room.

His fate was the topic of table discussions – we know what is to come

At the moment of our lung’s release, she asks

“He’s going to die, isn’t he?”

Silence. Tears.

Her eyes. The glassy stage of battle between

sorrow,

pain,

confusion,

disbelief,

bravery. Braver than us to face the truth that’s been staring at her for 18 days as she sat with him alone.

Bravery that suffocated us

tempting us to escape, yet there we were

The only consolation we thought to offer was

memory

We wouldn’t forget this, we wouldn’t forget her,

didn’t we agree?

Yet sheets fluttered in unison as the pages turned.

“The next patient is Mrs. Jones, she’s a 78-year-old woman with…”

My page remained on him. The page we stole from her.