Good Samaritan Hospital

Sorrow lives just around the corner. It will peek around at the best of times. Sitting in a sunny spot outside, feeling the warmth on my back. I turn my head. And there it is.

The building is the same. It’s been the same for nine years. Those windows staring down at me. I knew I was close – there is a little flashing light somewhere in my mind that blinks faster the closer I get, even if I don’t consciously acknowledge it. I knew I was close, but somehow my eyes had avoided the skyline.

I turn and there it is. Oval windows. No other building in this city has windows like that. I look up and study the windows.

I’m just sitting, trying to eat my lunch. In a few minutes, I will go and pick up my daughter. She is the gift that God gave me to prove to me that life goes on and it is glorious. And soon after that, I will see my son – the gift that was given – twice.

But my eye has settled on those windows. I try to see inside from where I am. I know it is impossible, but suddenly I can see the hallways, the doors, the paint. The thin disguise of decoration over reality that fools children but never fools a mother.

As I sit there in an uncomfortable wicker chair with people walking by and talking about who knows what – stuff they think is so important right now – as I sit there, I can actually smell that building that is blocks away.

Something inside me changes, twists, and hurts. My mind says, no that is all over. Years ago. You don’t have to feel that anymore. But that spot deep within begins to weep. I want to put my hand on it and apply pressure like you would a bleeding wound.

I know if I don’t I will have to let it all out. And I don’t have time. So, I push my sorrow down, and it is like a sleeping bag that will never fit back into its original sack. I push and pull, tuck and push. And with the last bite of the lunch I no longer want, I force myself to stand and turn my back on it.

The building of sorrow with oval windows. Just around the corner.

*** and with that, I say, goodbye, May... see you next year***