Hospital

The hospital: a place where opposites exist on parallel floors; where a newborn is being given to her mother, taking her first breaths of bleach stained air, yet two floors up somebody's father is lying in a bed, straining to breathe. I have visited there many times in the past year, so memories still linger in me just as its antiseptic smell pervaded my clothing. The halls are labyrinthine: twisting and turning, corridors that lead nowhere, with doors that transport to a completely different, alien place. They are lined with confusing signs and arrows, each pointing in the same direction yet guiding you to different places, pressing you in a direction where you don't want to go, as if the very hospital doesn't want you ending up at your real destination because it knows that you won't like what you see.
But as you trek on, staggering through the never-ending maze, you eventually find the elevators. These massive metal movers transport you to the floors above, where the halls are quiet and still, their white walls muffling whimpers and cries, whether of happiness or sorrow. And the nurses: they look at you with smiles on their faces, yet their eyes reveal the pity they have for you.
And as you walk past the rooms, the sights inside surprise you. Some are filled with people laughing, trying to keep happy faces on for their loved ones, cheering them on and wishing them speedy recoveries. But some are empty, only occupied by the patient, quiet and calm, yet terribly lonely.
As you keep walking, the door comes closer and closer, urging you to open it, yet warning you to stay out. Its cold handle mirrors the feeling in your soul, one of dread and fear, not knowing what will be on the other side. Slowly you open it, and everything turns white; not because of a bright light, but because of the curtain: yet another barrier, telling you to turn back.
Finally, you draw back the drapes and you see what you've been imagining on this long journey through the labyrinth of halls, past the gazes of pity, and through the barriers of fear: happiness. He is lying there with a smile on his face, even though you know he's in pain. The family that surrounds him is comforting, not pitiful. As you look at him, a smile springs to his face, happy that you're there, and you think maybe, just maybe, that trek from the car to the hospital room wasn't as bad as you thought.