Along the corridor, the lonely wheelchair looked forlorn. As if the old geezer was still sitting there, gazing over the concrete precipice. But there was no one. He was gone.
Along the corridor, the anguished Mother looked bereft of emotion. Save for a tiny tear that trickled down her by now pallid cheeks. She had one hand on a spanking new stroller. But the little occupant was gone.
An old man of 86 years. A new-born of 8 days.
When the Grim Reaper swings his rusty Scythe, he hardly ever misses. Young or Old, Rich or Poor, Ready or Not.
When I left both homes yesterday, offering little, apart from my meagre condolences, the words
Carpe Diem rang true, again...