It’s in the still of the late evening breeze, you feel him. Lurking.
It’s in the wee small hours you sense him. Stalking.
It’s in the in-between; the place where souls linger. Waiting.
A woman in a coma, hands gripping hands to pull her back to life. Words uttered and songs played and a room filled with prayer and hope.
It’s in that place between a surgeon’s cut; where he holds a heart in his hand. The machine sighs. Stand back, watch the flutter. Whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.
It’s in the waiting. And the not waiting. Beep. Beep. Beep.
It’s in the swift deftness of stolen suddenness. Cry. Cry.Cry.
The car. You didn’t see.
The knife. You didn’t glimpse. Not a surgeon’s knife; this one takes instead of giving.
It’s in the silence credits.
At both ends of the same building souls wait.
Some called back, some sent on.
One end a father falls to his knees and weeps.
At the other a father is made and a baby cries.