I won’t tell you where I work,
or what job I have.
But I’m twenty-one years old
and I’ve witnessed five people die.
And I know… I’ll most probably witness more.

I saw my first death at eighteen.
Two more at nineteen.
One at twenty.
And the last… at twenty-one.

I still remember their names.
Their faces.
The way they called me darling.

I still remember the food they loved
carrot soup,
toast buttered right to the very edges.
And the food they hated
Peas that had the consistency of thick porridge.

I remember their coffee orders.
Two sugars.
Heavy on the milk,
with a biscuit on the side for comfort.

And I remember how empty their room looked after.
Their belongings, folded and neatly placed.
Empty chairs,
where their family once kept vigil.
“Get well soon” cards
scattered like broken promises.

When they left,
They carried a piece of me with them.
And I gave it willingly.

Because it mattered.
Those small moments.
The ones I’ll carry.
The ones I’ll hold on to.