Colors of the Tuscan sun flood the early risers of the waiting room
Myself among the anticipating
Among the worrying
Among the stressing
Oranges, yellows, and red dance across the young woman beside me
I stare until all her lines are marks of her past
My heart beats in time with the nurse’s hurried footsteps
Anxious footsteps
Bothered footsteps
Bright dawn rays start creeping toward the help desk
Help for the hurt
Help for the lost
Suddenly the chair I sit bethroned on becomes a hot seat
I watch the doctor near me, the Tuscan sun playing on his sad face
My body turns away from the message I don’t want to receive
Staring at his polished shoes as orange highlights the missed spots he declares,
“I am sorry to say she’s gone… “
I hear his poorly washed shoes tread away from my now limp frame
I stumble to the help desk for I am one of the lost and hurt while the bitter sweet Tuscan sun chases after me.
