wish i could write about something other than death

i get in the car to go home and collapse.

it rains and it feels like the world is crying with me too.

we sit down to eat dinner at 9:00 p.m.,

and my fiancé tells me about the bonus he earned

and the games he played at his work meeting.

and i tell him that we coded a patient for 40 minutes,

but she died anyway.

he says, i left work early because a thunderstorm

was rolling in.

i say,

we broke most of her ribs.

i could feel them crunch beneath my hands.

my hands were still on her chest

when the physician called time of death.

i tell him how unnatural she looked when she died.

in a cold hospital room,

surrounded by people she didn't know.

tube in her throat, hooked up to a million cords.

i say,

when i die i want to be at home.

wrapped in my childhood quilt.

he nods.

my coworkers tell me that in order to survive,

i have to learn to compartmentalize my emotion.

"it gets easier," they say.

well, what if i don't want it to get easier?

what if the grief is the only thing that keeps me human?

what if I don't want to watch someone die in my arms

and then go home and act like it never happened?

i lay my head down and feel crushed by the weight of death.

and i see her face in the moment before i fall asleep.

like a flash of light,

like a memory that will haunt me forever.