Handoffs | MDedge

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Masa—Hospitalist

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Paul Aronowitz, MD

Birds in the yard picking grapes from the few vines I long ago figured would never amount to much with all this fog.

Your voice comes through from some other place, conversational, not lonely as I would have thought.

I should put netting up, try and salvage something, for a bottle of wine to share with a friend.

You laugh at me Why'd you plant them if you were going to let the birds eat them? All the digging? All the blisters. I hear you from somewhere beyond this place.

But the birds are happy today, grapes dark, sticky sweet and purple in the sunlight. The leaves deep green, bright with a life that hurts my eyes.

I could give you a hard time too for avoiding the throbbing of your head and eyes, the first call of leukemia.

Or for how you left this place, 46 years old, 2 years after Kai was born, the miracle baby, you and Christine called him. after 10 years of trying, the specialists having given up

Even harsher, I could ask what you meant getting sick and dyingleaving us to care for all the patients.

But I won't do that today as it's not that kind of day the birds so contented and all.

Instead I will recount Your stories of free diving for abalone near Mendocino, gulls overhead, kelp, seals, the occasional shark, below. Each diver allowed only one. Afterward, driving back to San Francisco, fog thick.

The birds eating grapes, I should do something, about that happiness. They sing and dance in the sun, jabber at each other, bellies full. The emptiness sometimes.

I understand your death no better than the beautiful inner side of the abalone shell after you'd crack it open long after you'd come up for air, out of the kelp and the cold, panting, completely alive, a big smile as you walked to shore, catch in hand.

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Issue

Journal of Hospital Medicine - 2(6)

Publications

Journal of Hospital Medicine

Page Number

447-447

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Author(s)

Paul Aronowitz, MD

Author(s)

Paul Aronowitz, MD

Article PDF

Article PDF

Birds in the yard picking grapes from the few vines I long ago figured would never amount to much with all this fog.

Your voice comes through from some other place, conversational, not lonely as I would have thought.

I should put netting up, try and salvage something, for a bottle of wine to share with a friend.

You laugh at me Why'd you plant them if you were going to let the birds eat them? All the digging? All the blisters. I hear you from somewhere beyond this place.

But the birds are happy today, grapes dark, sticky sweet and purple in the sunlight. The leaves deep green, bright with a life that hurts my eyes.

I could give you a hard time too for avoiding the throbbing of your head and eyes, the first call of leukemia.

Or for how you left this place, 46 years old, 2 years after Kai was born, the miracle baby, you and Christine called him. after 10 years of trying, the specialists having given up

Even harsher, I could ask what you meant getting sick and dyingleaving us to care for all the patients.

But I won't do that today as it's not that kind of day the birds so contented and all.

Instead I will recount Your stories of free diving for abalone near Mendocino, gulls overhead, kelp, seals, the occasional shark, below. Each diver allowed only one. Afterward, driving back to San Francisco, fog thick.

The birds eating grapes, I should do something, about that happiness. They sing and dance in the sun, jabber at each other, bellies full. The emptiness sometimes.

I understand your death no better than the beautiful inner side of the abalone shell after you'd crack it open long after you'd come up for air, out of the kelp and the cold, panting, completely alive, a big smile as you walked to shore, catch in hand.

Birds in the yard picking grapes from the few vines I long ago figured would never amount to much with all this fog.

Your voice comes through from some other place, conversational, not lonely as I would have thought.

I should put netting up, try and salvage something, for a bottle of wine to share with a friend.

You laugh at me Why'd you plant them if you were going to let the birds eat them? All the digging? All the blisters. I hear you from somewhere beyond this place.

But the birds are happy today, grapes dark, sticky sweet and purple in the sunlight. The leaves deep green, bright with a life that hurts my eyes.

I could give you a hard time too for avoiding the throbbing of your head and eyes, the first call of leukemia.

Or for how you left this place, 46 years old, 2 years after Kai was born, the miracle baby, you and Christine called him. after 10 years of trying, the specialists having given up

Even harsher, I could ask what you meant getting sick and dyingleaving us to care for all the patients.

But I won't do that today as it's not that kind of day the birds so contented and all.

Instead I will recount Your stories of free diving for abalone near Mendocino, gulls overhead, kelp, seals, the occasional shark, below. Each diver allowed only one. Afterward, driving back to San Francisco, fog thick.

The birds eating grapes, I should do something, about that happiness. They sing and dance in the sun, jabber at each other, bellies full. The emptiness sometimes.

I understand your death no better than the beautiful inner side of the abalone shell after you'd crack it open long after you'd come up for air, out of the kelp and the cold, panting, completely alive, a big smile as you walked to shore, catch in hand.

Issue

Journal of Hospital Medicine - 2(6)

Issue

Journal of Hospital Medicine - 2(6)

Page Number

447-447

Page Number

447-447

Publications

Journal of Hospital Medicine

Publications

Journal of Hospital Medicine

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Display Headline

Masa—Hospitalist

Display Headline

Masa—Hospitalist

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