Twenty-Six
by Laila Newsome
Wheeling a cart down the hallway
Sweating one hot summer morning
My light purple scrubs sticking to my skin as I pass by the rooms of the sick, coughs and cries echoing in the air
I paint a smile upon my tired face. I am twenty-six.
Entering the room to my left, I recall my college years
Allowing the feeling of newfound excitement to wash over me once more
Meeting my new patient gave me the same goosebumps I felt walking onto campus that autumn day
I feel my heart thumping in my ears. I let go of the air locked in my chest and march in. I am twenty-six.
Code R99. Those numbers attached to that letter signify that another soul had been lost. Dead upon arrival.
Her body was decorated with bullet holes, her blood littering the hospital floors.
My legs carry me to a nearby garbage can and I haul up my Ceasar salad, tears streaming down my face, vomit leaking out of my nose. I am twenty-six.
I’m standing outside, the wind blowing away the anxiety of my workday
Outside in the courtyard, the petals of the cherry blossom trees fall gracefully, landing gently on the ground near my feet
A young, single mother had safely delivered her baby, the young one’s cries reaching my ears, even from outside
I find myself smiling, happy to help welcome another life into this world.
I blink, dreaming of being twenty-six.