white/rose, first of many

Wan, weary, woefully bereft,
Hoping, hurting, slumped against his chest,
In my imagination, she flinches at the sound,
The cautious attempt to enter unannounced.
Either she is praying, a wretched sob of grief,
Or silently frozen, willing me to leave.
Signaling for help, and clearing my mind,
Each of my breaths, too loud in the silence.
Reluctantly I wait, as my nurse approaches, whispering to me the recent prognosis.
When she pauses, I pass her the chart, newly amended results and remarks.
Hollowly, she reads in a whisper,
frowning, then a breath as it hits her.
I was the only one, my optimism undeterred,
Trying to encourage, instead of the reverse.
"Would you be willing to tell her," I ask,
"His route of recovery now the danger is passed."
Her nod, just enough to show she agrees,
I blink in relief, and unlock my knees.
It should be simple to move to my office,
but it takes all my effort to turn and walk in.
After a flick of the switch, I recharge in the dimness,
Slumped, controlled breathing, eyes closed a few minutes...
the whitest rose, and the scent therein,
a meditation, a bit of heaven.

The End

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