White Coats & reckoning

Dear Guilty People,

Gheorge was a terror, bright yellow rage and  indignation, nothing I could do avoided that.

The son in flight, shining this way, in his yellow pajama bottoms grieving all the way. Another shout, I don’t know why. You inched closer by. Another shout, I don’t know why. The fluorescents strung out like makeshift stars, their reflection form a constellation over the linoleum. Bleak white linoleum, the ground everyone steps on, you’re down, foregone and  stepped on. Grave man, you’re an  after thought, the half light of the reflected fluorescent on white linoleum. From  hospital to pharmacy, the pilgrimage leads to this judgement day. No pearly gates, just white coats and his very own reckoning. White pill because you’ve failed against  gluttony, yellow pill because you’ve failed to be happy, and red pill because you’ve failed to be active. Everyone looks but no one is seeing: poverty, abandonment, desolation, and illness. They look at un-kept, red robe, bloodshot eyes, yellow pajama bottom grave man. They see privilege, health insurance, disease, fault. I’m guilty of calling you up to receive your medications, grave man. They are guilty of burying you with them. Not guilty are those that know that you work two jobs to pay for medication out of pocket, and take care of your mother who has dementia. That is no one. The blinding light calls you home, the floor rips open and will take you in, but death is no home for you. Your curses and your rage, that is your home, it feeds you and makes you strong, comforts you when you’re upset. Indignation carries you away from guilt and brings you to us. “Rage, rage against the dying of the light, Do not go gentle into that good night.”

Sincerely,

A pharmacy technician.