A little 2 year old girl died this last weekend. After hours trying to save her, she passed away Saturday night, I think.

Her parents listed her as an organ donor, and she ended up saving so many lives. The entire hospital held an honor walk for her and her family as they took her to the operating room. Nurses, doctors, and even technicians have been mourning for her.

I never stopped to think about the humanitarian side of working in a hospital. Yeah, I'm just a technician, but I'm directly impacting people. Itxs really intimidating. It makes me want to work harder at this job than all the others I've ever had. Because if I screw up...

Do you ever think about that? Do you ever think about who you impact? Have you ever thought about the nurses, doctors, and techs who also mourn when you lose a loved one?

The night showering more fog than usual.

Numb feet parading the sly road,

Sweatshirts on top of another while snow slightly drizzling.

The cold is enough

to kiss my bare skin;

Yet unaccomplished is my soul within.

Waiting for the twitch of a complete hug.

The moment I unfurled the touch

tasting like heaven.

It melted with the intensity of heat

my love woven.

One touch and the cold wrapped me in his arms hugging my soul’s flame.

Rising my temperature to hundred Fahrenheit.

With the flavour of butterscotch icecream

I couldn’t fest the entire blame.

And, of just who

I am, I say.

I’m an old soul

as the one you see

in a world of many

wonderful ladies

I’m very much a child-

woman, with reaching

hands for the pen to

write it down.

If

pieces of

my

dying strength

should ever

fall off the edge

of the dreams

I’ve had,

I will look

for stronger

days, with all of

the mighty forces

of life, drawing

the end of

the rainbows.

My yesterday’s have

been many moments

leaving tiny bits of

the now,

a wonderful time

left over to build

on the golden years

Yes, I’m told

I will age,

gracefully

growing wings

and I am meant to

live like a taller giant

in a newer world

reliving my youth--

coloring yellow sun

houses-- capturing

the gardens of

everything

that is beautiful.

And, of just who

I am, I say.

if

ever these trials

of my aging

should find I’m

stronger than any

struggling doubt

It is then that I will

reach all of my life stories

finding gold in the pen

I write with.

And,

If words I write

Should say who I am - -

I am no longer anonymous

for I am simply an aging soul

and, yet, I am young in words.

I think of my husbands failing health and compare it to a haunted house in the dark woods. It’s how I feel when I’m walking down that long hallway to his patient room and I’m filled with uncertainty.

“Hi Hon,” I say, “How are you doing today?”

I imagine the doctors ever so carefully climbing up the creaking stairs of the house and turning the knob. A door opens and all the answers have to be dusted off and tried. An energetic doctor examines his patient as the kind hear-ted Nurse tells our guy that he is doing better today. I immediately look into my man’s blinking eyes for verification.

“I want to go home,” he cries out, “and I want you to take off these gloves.”

“There you have it,” the doctor laughs, “Two days ago, he was so unaware that he wasn’t fighting at all. ‘Maybe we’re not as deep into the woods as it seems,’ I think to myself as I listen to the doc.

My lifetime partner’s sodium level is low so sugar water is added to his IV as the Nurse fiddles with hospital equipment and I look around the room. “Just this morning, he told me what his name is and even spelled it out.” She smiles.

“That’s great.” I say.

The ‘Press’ swelling is going down some, lessening the confusion that was caused by super high blood pressure on the day he was admitted to ER. The doctor explains this and I am happy. It means that his dementia like behavior isn’t dementia at all. There was no stroke, seizure, or brain damage and my husbands heart is in fairly good shape.

“Doctor, thank you so much.” I say.

“You are very welcome."

The patient room clears and I’m alone with the love of my life again. He stares at me, returning my smile with a smile that only he can give and I feel like he’s returning to his old self. In all the years we’ve been together, I’ve never seen him stare so much!

“When am I getting off the island?” he asks.

“What do you mean by that, hon.?”

“I can’t connect to anything and I don’t remember much.”

And so, the haunted house of his health changes mysteries and I look for a raft to help him escape the lonely island. If he’s counting down from 10 to 1 in his head, I know he’ll be sleeping soon. He wants me to stay but he’s fighting to keep his eyes open. I tell him to close his eyes and rest up for the rescue team to bring him to his better self.

“I don’t understand,” he cries out, “the last thing I even remember is waiting.”

Yes, seventeen days ago, he was in the Emergency Room, admitted to the hospital and waiting. The intake worker had said, “A doctor will be in shortly to speak to you,” and that’s the last thing he remembered. It was on Day 1 that he was put on a life support breathing machine.

Today, it is a new day. It’s Tuesday afternoon now and my husband has finally fallen asleep. I must leave now and return tomorrow. The next thing on the agenda is to have his gall bladder removed. “I want to look at some areas while I operate on him,” the surgeon said earlier. “I want to make sure his colon is OK and there aren’t any other issues that need to be addressed.”

And so, I return to hallway of the haunted house that has turned into a lonely island and I walk towards the door. I notice the door is a long ways away and I walk slowly.

“Care to hop on the back seat,” the courtesy cart driver asks, “which way are you headed?” I’ve decided against telling the man that I’m headed for the best deal on a raft that I can find.

“I need to get to the parking lot.” I say, “Thank-you.”

“No problem, Miss. No problem at all.”

. ☆

/ \

/ \

/ ○ \

/ ● \

/ ○ \

/ ● ○ \

/ ○ ● \

/ ● \

/___○____○___\

| |

Sometimes silver like waters run through the whispering secret

of our pastel summers,

it was a peaches and cream winged dream, playing sonnets

in the wind of the eagles, the bouncing rhythms of every blue

note writing songs for us in the sky

sometimes the sterling memory of its ebb is still orchestrating

the band for us, even now in the gray crumblings of time, when

its all we can see.

A yellow wistling sun echoes in the melody of everything we had

Far away from the laughing white snow that falls. We’re no longer

able to hear the howling black night shouting out the stars to empty

the constellations.

Somehow the eyes of time are blinking and we’re wide awake again.

If she only told him she loved him

whispering words into his uncertain

dreams at night

faith alone, waking the sleeping rainbows

moving his every wish toward the sundrops

If waiting forever was an unheard of burden

his candle would be lit in the dancing sky of

her ballad already

If unsaid words hadn’t gottten in the way of

time’s art work, what would he have done with

the painting of her? What would she have done

with her life with him? If only she had said the

words.

When the boy on my

cruise from New Orleans

asked, Where are your horns?

I was completely floored.

Where are my horns, I thought,

clasping my hand over

the Star of David necklace

around my neck.

I went back to my room,

made a cup of tea, and

said goodnight to Grandma.

Gute Nacht, my grandmother

said to me, before tucking

me into bed.

Grandma, I said, has anyone

ever asked you if you had horns?

Oh yes, said Grandma,

back in Austria anyone wearing

a star was called a beast. But you

know what?

I looked cautiously

at my grandma

and raised my eyebrows.

The ones with the thickest horns

are the ones that are most

likely to survive.

I glanced up at my

grandmother,

a 92-year old Holocaust

survivor, and suddenly my

eyes became heavy

and closed.

That night I dreamt about

winning. About standing on

a first place podium

holding a golden trophy,

with passion in my eyes.

laughter echoing across the wooden picket fence

honeysuckle blossoms between sweet cherry-red lips

the hollow echo of a pebble bouncing across pavement

Olive eyes drinking in the cotton candy clouds stretched across the sky

The wind runs gentle fingers through loose brown hair, carrying whispers of summer fields and fingers sticky with vanilla cream

faint streaks of kool-aid dyed hair

woven round wilted dandelions

giggles and grass stained knees

crawling under splintering wooden beams and weaving around rusty equipment,

following the thin tabby cat to the horses in their rolling pastures,

wiry tails flicking at the swathes of flies floating lazily on the stagnant patch of warm air

rolling down the window, listening to the crackling radio

the tires squealing on loose gravel ,

laugh and look up at the sunroof, sun baking freckled shoulders

come across a small fruit stand

peach juice dripping down lips and bony elbows

raspberry stained fingers wave goodbye as the car pulls away,

a tub of strawberries dripping onto the passenger's seat