I hear your shrieks from the hall before I enter, and excuse the technician

Hello, I am your nurse

You clutch at my coat with bony tendrils, wild eyes;
I am the first thing you really see in the hospital room

The smell of disease mixes with antimicrobials

It's you, you say as your eyes devour me, frantically trying to grasp what is happening

I take your hand in my own and impart calm
Your body becomes less rigid

"It's time now, isn't it? Will you stay with me? You will think of me sometimes, won't you?"

I nod and tuck your hair back from your forehead
Tell me a story

You talk of your childhood
You are already traveling in the right direction, back from grandchildren, children and marriage and career through school and growing up

I imagine the place my son tells me about- where he was with God and the others waiting to be born, before he chose me to carry him into this world
You are almost there

Your storytelling ceases, and you don't see me any longer
You are in transition, speaking only to the loved ones who passed before you as they surround your bed with outstretched arms

You finally relent and you give me one last squeeze
You give me a flower that suddenly blooms full and fragrant from your lips after you leave
You give me what you need to be left of you here, and I add it to the others that I carry