A Nurse’s Introduction

There are telltale signs we will meet again –

the crumbling dryness of your feet,

the purplish opalescence of your shins,

the belly –

taut with distension,

and the hint of yellow in your eyes,

from which, even as you’re joking now,

a few feet away from me in the grocery store,

jovial crinkles surrounding them

meld softly into rivers

of tiny pink lines

that dive off the tips of your nose

and are then carried away on a phlegmy laugh.

It is a certainty.

We will meet again.

Not at barbecues

or weddings

will we be introduced, no;

but while I describe the beauty of the sunset

as it rushes into the grimy windows of your corner room,

bathing you in a quick wash of final light.

And as I pull you up,

your family will tell me your story,

and I will nod,

and smile,

and secretly cry,

knowing I am too late to know how fun you were,

or meticulous,

or vain.

Or really anything at all about you –

except that you will die.

We will meet again in the ungodly hours of the morning,

when your husband no longer hears your breathing,

or when your neighbors haven’t seen you

for that one brief moment you empty the mailbox

each and every day.

We will meet again amidst open boxes of epinephrine

and puddles of normal saline underfoot,

multi-colored caps hastily popped off by trembling thumbs

hoping to keep you alive –

and maybe succeeding,

for, after all, how do we measure success?

And what is certainty?

Certainly, not this.

But it’s a pleasure to meet you.