March 17, 2008
0200 to 0500, unsure of the time
“You didn’t see me. You were working.” Was the quiet accusation of the wiry fourteen year old boy (5’ 8” or 5’ 9”) that died on the table that was being worked on by five anesthesiologists.
“I had so much work” I said, for I was on call.
“You weren’t looking for me.” He then offered, “I wanted to grow up. I wanted to drive a car.”
“You are disappointed.” I gently said. It was his time and we both knew saying anything more would be useless—he couldn’t go back.
“Are you coming back? (reincarnating)” I asked.
No. It’s too early to tell (His opportunity to do so had something to do with his extended family structure which was unfavorable—we both knew)
“I will come back to talk.” He pressed on my arm.