After watching people in their last hours at the hospital, she concluded the lungs were the stupidest organs of all. She could never figure out why they insisted on struggling ahead long after the rest of the body seemed to have understood what was happening and given up.
He heard them saying something about an accident and a time of death, as he lay there staring helplessly at a host of people, doctors and nurses he assumed, with masks on their faces and gloves on their hands.
As a noisy, whining machine was powered off above his head, and as the doctors and nurses walked away discussing what would be for lunch, he lay there, unable to move, breath, or even blink, trying to scream, “No wait, don’t go away!”
She thought herself a very good mother and hated leaving the five of them alone for any length of time, even to go across the street to get food for dinner, for they were typical young’uns always looking for mischief, but what choice did she have?
He didn’t even brake when he saw her, just muttered “damn raccoon” as he sped off leaving her dying on the road, bleeding and broken, and her young babes hungry, motherless orphans.
Somehow, goodbye never feels easy in the mouth; it catches in the throat and twists the tongue and you end up saying, “I’ll see you soon.” As you close the curtain on your way out, the gentle white lie is laid bare and its grim implications jolt you to a halt.