that which lacks words

If we make it through the night
If we make it out alive
Lord have mercy and pray for the dead
And you say that you can save me
Don't hope to ever find me
And I fear I'm too far gone
Pray for the dead
There is a hell
Believe me, I've seen it. 

I've never written of him. At least publicly. The words remain beyond my grasp. Or, is it that words represent a poor description. A mere charicature. But he left me songs to which to listen. After all, music begins where words fail. A thinly veiled attempt to bridge that chasm of pain. To communicate that which lacks words. 

nurses

"Hey, doctor. Have you eaten lunch yet?" a nurse whispered to me.

I stop typing orders and look at the time on the computer clock. It's 11:37. "Hell, I haven't even had breakfast yet."

"We have a bunch of leftovers in the break room. We had a breakfast pot luck. Want some?"

This is what happens when you treat nurses as human beings.