310 blared. A gown held and slipped. It was hideous. Petted legs and prayed. Hail Mary’s. The cleaning person seemed demeaned as I told her to leave. But, family, and there was so much blood. Love. Outside the room waiting.
312 breathed. She purposely stated, he’s dead. Yes. Fell asleep listening. Quietly. Like dreams. Ended. When ministry came up to me. Are you ok? Me? He’s not. Really, they’re not.
Forgot as vitals typed in tiny boxes.
Locked without the key. Pretty print to please. I’m happy in pink. Or turquoise, or whatever matches that disease. Ribboned and crossed. Because they can do so much. With Funding. Underscored.
More after scrubs turn into pillow forms, batted quilts. Guilt. Filled. Stuffed with enough blood and glory of every story. Personalized. I’m telling they’re gone. And they said, don’t get old, honey, as I replied, that’s mean, considering.
Seeing Medicare wing. Dingy green. Wheelchair streams in waiting. Baiting for lunch. Nothing. Bibs stained depressing. Feet in rhythmic shuffling. And maybe that’s where they go. Like ants trailing back to the hill.
With a nurse instructing a discharge form. I said home, or home, home. It became as a lyrical sigh. Eyes up, reply. Quiet weekend roaming, looking. So many. Names and faces. And that minister is nowhere to be found now, as I’m still