Death's sorrow

I knock gently at the hospital door.
Inside the sterile white room
in the tiny bed with rough, blue-knit covers
lays a little girl
who's hair is gone
and who's lips are cracked and dry.

Her green eyes are already open
when I approach her.
They are tired and have lost their spark.

"You look like the Grim Reaper." her voice is quiet.

I kneel beside her silently, and her eyes mist over with truth.

"My family will be sad," she looks to her left, where a small framed photo
sits on her nightstand. A woman, a man, and a little boy
with the same green eyes smile out at us
unaware they have already spoken
to their daughter
or to their sister
for the last time.

"I'm sorry," and I mean it.
After all, I could not tell you
how many poets I've taken before their words
could flow across a sheet of paper.
How many artists I've taken before they could
create a masterpiece.

"It's okay," she replies, and she is not crying. I am surprised.
The children usually cry.
"Could you please make it quick? I've hurt for a long time."

I feel a long, slow ache in the cavity where my heart should be.
"It is already done, child. I do not kill." I hold out my
gnarled grey hand and rise to my feet.
"You have already passed. Death is quiet."

"Oh," she sounds relieved as she swings her tiny legs over the side of the bed
and takes my hideous hand in her own.
"Okay."
She stands with ease, clearly no longer suffering.

I feel the heat drain from her skin
as we touch.

As we walk down the somber hall
of the hospital
I have to remind myself that there is nothing I could have done.
I am not a monster, nor an executioner.
I am merely the deliverer of news.