Ward 57
The double lift doors slide open on the fifth floor, and a voice resounds from the part of the lobby hidden from view. "Is there space?"
A woman on a wheelchair eases her way in. The first thing that stands out is how the chair is squatter than the usual. My gaze slants down, towards the anomaly.
"Which floor?" the man next to the buttons asks.
"The one you're all going to," comes the cheerful reply. She is a middle-aged woman, aging gracefully. A shock of white hair mingles with shades of caramel brown. Few wrinkles cross her face; her cheeks are tinted pink. I suppose my stare is rude. The movement of a leg catches my attention.
A single appendage takes its place beneath the folds of her dress, navy blue with floral patterns. Various tiered layers cascade over her knee. I glimpse a black shoe, and a white sock extending from within. With her foot, she positions herself in the lift proper.
Silence resounds in the cuboid for moments. The silver doors rumble shut, and us tall, standing giants stare forward, not speaking. I wonder how the one-legged woman feels looking at her counterparts in the lift. Her dress is strapless, and her shoulders are smooth and unblemished. I avert my eyes, to the tiny black clip on the head of long hair before me. Fluorescent light glints off the metallic spring. A high, girlish voice sounds from behind. "You going home?"
On the other side of the enclosed space, another female answers, but falls quiet. Our descent continues.
The doors part again on the second floor, and the middle-aged lady makes to move out. Her progress is halted by the man at the buttons, who holds on to the handle of her wheelchair, because it's the wrong storey. She looks up at him. "Thank you very much."
I missed his response. The woman glances over him, at something he clasps in one hand.
We glide down to the ground floor, and the wheelchair-bound female pushes herself out backwards. "Are you a pastor?" she asks the man.
Again, his reaction is imperceptible. He holds the lift doors open for everyone else, and the lady awaits him in the lobby. I glance back, noticing the thick, worn book in his grasp. Shimmery gold coats the page edges.
"I think they need a pastor upstairs. There's a lady in Ward 57, on the fifth floor. They're waiting for someone to pray for her. She's just passed."
The man joins her. I round the corner, and continue on my way out.
It's surprising how trivial one's own problems are when you compare them to death.
On your deathbed, what will your last thought be? What regrets will you have? With these questions, consider the trials you are facing now. You'll find that a lot of your worries about won't count for much in the end.
A woman on a wheelchair eases her way in. The first thing that stands out is how the chair is squatter than the usual. My gaze slants down, towards the anomaly.
"Which floor?" the man next to the buttons asks.
"The one you're all going to," comes the cheerful reply. She is a middle-aged woman, aging gracefully. A shock of white hair mingles with shades of caramel brown. Few wrinkles cross her face; her cheeks are tinted pink. I suppose my stare is rude. The movement of a leg catches my attention.
A single appendage takes its place beneath the folds of her dress, navy blue with floral patterns. Various tiered layers cascade over her knee. I glimpse a black shoe, and a white sock extending from within. With her foot, she positions herself in the lift proper.
Silence resounds in the cuboid for moments. The silver doors rumble shut, and us tall, standing giants stare forward, not speaking. I wonder how the one-legged woman feels looking at her counterparts in the lift. Her dress is strapless, and her shoulders are smooth and unblemished. I avert my eyes, to the tiny black clip on the head of long hair before me. Fluorescent light glints off the metallic spring. A high, girlish voice sounds from behind. "You going home?"
On the other side of the enclosed space, another female answers, but falls quiet. Our descent continues.
The doors part again on the second floor, and the middle-aged lady makes to move out. Her progress is halted by the man at the buttons, who holds on to the handle of her wheelchair, because it's the wrong storey. She looks up at him. "Thank you very much."
I missed his response. The woman glances over him, at something he clasps in one hand.
We glide down to the ground floor, and the wheelchair-bound female pushes herself out backwards. "Are you a pastor?" she asks the man.
Again, his reaction is imperceptible. He holds the lift doors open for everyone else, and the lady awaits him in the lobby. I glance back, noticing the thick, worn book in his grasp. Shimmery gold coats the page edges.
"I think they need a pastor upstairs. There's a lady in Ward 57, on the fifth floor. They're waiting for someone to pray for her. She's just passed."
The man joins her. I round the corner, and continue on my way out.
It's surprising how trivial one's own problems are when you compare them to death.
On your deathbed, what will your last thought be? What regrets will you have? With these questions, consider the trials you are facing now. You'll find that a lot of your worries about won't count for much in the end.