Sticks.

If I never have to hear the question
If I never again have to tell a woman that there's nothing we can do,
That she didn't do anything, couldn't have known.
If I never have to swallow my tears
Put on a brave face
Choke back the wave of smothering grief
Washing out from this mother's mouth.
And walk into another room, filled with flowers and balloons and butterfly wishes, dizzy from the contrast...

If I never again have to hold her hand while she wails
My baby, my baby.

I would be ok with that.

I know its not my grief.
I know it's not my story, not my baby, not my loss
I am just the messenger.
But I feel her pain.
As a nurse, as a woman, as a human being I am struck here.
I am helpless to do more than bear witness to an ultimate sorrow.
We, unquiet shepherds- Charon's sidekicks charged with working the other side of a revolving door.

Birth & death really ain't that different anyway.
Either way, it's generally a 10 in the "Oh, fuck" factor.

Cartoon clouds, now the only witnesses to my inflated sense of self-importance sneer at me from on high.
As if clouds could sneer.
And so I let go, after a mad moment of empathy and understanding of suffering.
I let fly a giggle at my own ridiculousness
I am my own judge and jury, here on the high court of my porch.
Me, Charon, and the clouds, all.