End

I sit in the stiff, vinyl-back chair in the waiting room, playing with the baby to keep him from fussing. Ten feet away is the door to an army of machines that keep lungs breathing, hearts beating, lives waiting. There are probably 20 bodies back there, fates unknown, but I am only concerned about one.

Someone is going to die today. Before you wake up tomorrow morning and make your coffee and read your paper, she will be gone. Machines will stop churning, monitors will stop beeping. Scientifically, she will cease to exist.

You do not know her story. You do not know what she has lived through. You do not know that her husband died nearly 20 years ago, or that she has raised several children. You do not see that one of those children grew up beautiful—inside and out—and is one of the most selfless people I know. And you can not see her heart breaking as she walks the hall.

There will be a service, and she will be buried. And as she is lowered into the ground, she will be surrounded by lungs breathing, hearts beating, lives waiting.

~ by Megan on May 29, 2008.