Those Not Going Home Again


There’s one way into the hospital and

two ways out.

The morgue door is in a yellowish, old hallway.

Not the public shiny hallway with the gift shop selling watches and Get Well balloons.

A darker, dirtier hallway where housekeepers and the people who deliver trays of food to

the living scurry along with their heads down, pushing heavy carts, trying to stay to the right.

It’s loud.


There is a small window in the morgue door,

but you would need to stop and look inside on purpose.

It’s not large enough to catch a casual glimpse of those

who won’t use the front door when they’re done here,

waiting triumphantly by one of those large white pillars while a family member pulls the

car around,

but the back door, open to the alley and the hot sun,

where trucks drop off supplies and

load up

those not going home again.


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