Fleeting Glances

          "So are you doing anything fun after school today?"
          "Yeah! I'm going to volunteer at a place called Hospice. I think I'm doing some gardening for them."
          "Hospice...the place where people go to...die?!" 
           This is what I've heard week after week since I've started volunteering at my local Hospice community center. It's true what my friends say though. Hospice is an organization that builds different centers in communities in which patients who have been declared terminal can go to die. I have such incredible respect for what this organization does, that I was eager to volunteer. Not only is it a place to die, but it's a place to die in comfort and with dignity. A place where someone who has accepted the fact that they're going to die can tie up all of their loose ends. With the help of Hospice, none of their patients will go out of this world with unfinished business. Their legal and family matters will be taken care of. Last requests can be fulfilled.
          I knew that I would be volunteering in a place where almost everyone in the building is going to die before I graduate high school, but I didn't care. I started volunteering, and everything was fine. Apart from finding some pamphlets titled "When Death Is On Your Doorstep" in a closet, I haven't been around death at all since I started; just clerical work. Sorting, inventory, that kind of thing. I never even saw a patient with my own eyes. Up until yesterday.
          I'm just working in the garden, discussing food options for an upcoming party with my friend when I see her. Her room's window is open, that's the only reason I can see her, although I'm not sure she sees me. Her dark glasses shielding her eyes. She's propped up in her bed, facing the window. No hum of a TV in the background; instead the soft sounds of a beautiful orchestra. Her skin is withered and has lost all elasticity. It's simple to tell that she's as frail as can be; ninety pounds at the most. She's all alone, and completely silent. I give a sweet smile, trying to hide any trace of sympathy in case she can see me, along with a friendly wave. The wave wasn't returned, nor the smile. All that comes is a nurse with pills that are put into the woman's hand.
        Of course I don't know this woman. I don't know the nurse. I have no connection to her family or her past, but I can't help feeling sad. Reminded that yes, this is a place where people come to die. Hospice makes is a comfortable and simple process, but nonetheless, that woman will die. When I'm sorting pamphlets, I'm sorting the pieces of paper that will be in the hands of a distraught sister, a weeping granddaughter, the list goes on and on. All I can do is put on a brave face, and make their garden beautiful. Remind them how beautiful the world is. The glance at the woman silenced me. I'm not sure if my friend even saw her, focused on the weeds she was pulling. She asked why I stopped talking and I just said I was spacing out. I had already over analyzed the situation enough for both of us.