Call Out the Instigators

We're Gonna Blast Our Way Through Here

The palm trees sway gently in the wind.

By the highway.

The pictures are still on the wall. Taped. No one seemed to mind.

The postcards are all in a row. Also taped. Above the photos.

The window is open and the cleaning crew has come through.

Everything will be boxed and someone will come pick it up.

The word will spread out from this spot.

And the awareness floats upward. Freely.


The nurses talked for a few days. Then they moved on.

There were other people, other problems.

One of them wondered about the strange visitors, the phone calls, the people with accents.

But she didn't say anything. She just wondered.

Some immediately forgot how cranky he could be, how difficult. They only wanted to remember the positive. Which is nice, but it's not real life. In trying to be nice, they unwittingly diminish the humanity.

Meanwhile, doctors and administrators talked about the family and speculated why so few of them had come.

Many questions remained. Questions that would never be answered.

Still the palm trees waved in the gentle ocean breeze.

They know the answers -- but more than that, they know when it's time.