Death is not black, it is every shade of pink. It starts with a feeling of being high. High on an idea. A misconception. Death is a burst of color, every hue of happy. It overtakes your every thought, every breath, every beat. Death is love in disguise. It is everything we thought we wanted or presumed we needed, but time heals everything. Time reveals the reality of everything. Death can only fool us for oh so long, but here I am facing death. My pink death, my rose form of grief. Nothing is harder than grieving someone who is alive, ending a life -even if only in your mind- is a burden. A heavy burden. I can proudly say that at 18 I surpassed this. I have grieved my pink and I have made it past every cherry blossom out there. I can stare death blankly without fidgeting. I have withdrawn the hue of pink I thought was its’. It is now black, just like every other minuscule death that is of no value.
I remember the very first baby I saw come to life had such a beautiful mother. Finally, we were upgraded to the labor room! The first week was filled with gauze and linen sheets. It was an eternal process of making beds and folding gauze, and honestly I started to doubt the day to enter the labor room was ever going to co me and if it was worth all that preparatory work . Everyday, women would come and give birth and there would be other nurses in-training like ourselves that were very “pushy’, so as you could imagine, we were always asked to leave and they would get the chance to watch the gift of life. Next thing we did was go in extra early and build strong relationship with all the people in the labor room. However, we would always arrive 2-3 minutes later than a birth, yet we would get to clean the beautiful newborn and dress them up and our mission was soon to be accomplished! So, the next day we got in, there was such a beautiful woman, painfully l...
Very poetic writing, very moving.
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