It was a tour of the hospice offices. Simple stuff.
But there was that guy.
Why didn’t I keep my trap shut?
Couldn’t I have read his mind? (Or, realistically, detected a hint of pain?)
As a professional, possessing a solid educational background and years of experience, how come I didn’t have right words at the right time to voice? But, as it’s jokingly and seriously said, sometimes . . . “Shit happens.”
It did that night.
Before explaining further, picture this man. He’s mid-seventies. His clothes are clean, a long-sleeved shirt buttoned at the wrists. His pants are unremarkable, with creases no longer sharp. The shoes need polishing. The crow’s feet framing his eyes have merged with other lines and creases. From forehead to chin, his face is a well-worn 3D topographical map. He’s leaner than beef jerky, and, so—to protect confidentiality—I’ll call him Slim Jim.
On his left hand, the gnarled finger closest to the pinkie, there’s a ring.
I didn’t notice it until later.
A friend shadows him, probably younger by a decade. This guy—let’s call him Nodding Norm—never speaks. But when his friend starts talking in a few minutes, he nods emphatically with every word.
Why was I with these two fellows? Read More →by