Author: joeshaw

I sit in the swirl,
the hum and the buzz of humanity,
hospital walls pulsing like arteries,
beating with stories, lives, fears, and hope.

Doctors glide like generals,
commanding the space with clipped precision,
white coats billowing banners of authority.
Nurses move quick, steady.
Steel in their spines, grace in their hands.
This is their battlefield.

Old couples sit outside the doctor’s door,
weathered hands folded over trembling knees,
a quiet patience wrapped in decades of love.
Whispers and soft smiles exchange
like a language only they know,
waiting for news,
but mostly waiting for each other.

To my left,
a large man un a blue shirt sits by the bariatric unit,
hope flickering in his eyes
like a candle fighting against the wind.
His chest rises heavy,
a rhythm of effort and belief that
today might be the first step.
He grips the armrest like it’s an anchor.

An emergency cart screams by,
all blaring sirens and pounding feet,
a flash of urgency slicing through time.
Faces blur. Is it fear? determination?
No one stops to ask. There’s no time.

And then she appears,
a nurse, fruendly and warm, with lines etched deep in her face,
creases that hold the weight of the world
and the warmth of a thousand thank-yous.
She calls my name, her voice a balm,
a ribbon of calm cutting through my nerves.
Her eyes tell me,
“I’ve seen it all,
and you’ll be okay.”
Her hands, strong and steady,
are love in action.

I walk behind her,
into this tapestry of lives intertwined.
My stomach clenches, not just with fear,
but with something else…
hope,
gratitude.

Thank God for this place.
For the steady hands amidst the chaos,
for the people who keep showing up, day after day, sleepless night after sleepless night.

Where would we be without these people?
The doctors with minds sharp as scalpels,
the nurses with hearts strong as steel.
Where would we be without their rush,
their steady hands in the storm,
their mix of skill and care,
of healing and hope?

Who else holds us when we are too afraid to hold ourselves?
Who else walks into the fire
just to pull us back?

Where would we be
without these people who show up,
every day,
with love stitched into their scrubs,
and courage pumping through their veins?

I sit in the waiting room,
but I am not just waiting.
I am seeing,
breathing,
believing.

The Waiting has come to an end.

They call me “Dad” like it’s my title, my name, like I’m some mythical creature who rises out of sleep on Halloween morning with a job to do, and I roll over, meet the eyes of three kids in costume. One, my medieval traveler; Two, a Reese’s candy pack with the crinkly edges;
and three, she’s the littlest of them all,a princess with a pink dress and even pinker running shoes, because princesses are swift these days. Their smiles are full of hope and expectation, and when they say “Trick or treat,” they mean it like a promise.

The oldest two are already out with their friends, my almost-men, who once stumbled around the block as chubby-footed toddlers, hands in mine, holding on for dear life, but tonight? Tonight, they’re solo, off finding themselves in the night’s misty glow. They say “Dad” like it’s a greeting card they’ve outgrown, and part of me aches at the thought, like I’m a ghost in my own home, wondering where the years slipped off to when I blinked or didn’t take enough photos, when I missed recording those simple breaths and smiles.

Reese’s Kid is in middle school now, and even he darts off, running with a friend down the street like a marathoner in orange and brown, leaving me and my wife to escort the last little crew – a princess, a traveler, a pack of neighbors – down streets that spark like campfires, porch lights like signals saying, “We’ve got buckets of candy! Stop by! Take as much as you like!”

As the sun dips low, the neighborhood springs to life, a parade of pint-sized monsters and caped crusaders, and I laugh at the simplicity. Some folks just sit there, a couple in lawn chairs, a big bowl of candy, a dog in a pumpkin suit. Others go all out, haunted house setups spilling onto the lawn, smoke machines, skeletons on swings, the smell of cider in the air.

These are the moments I carve deep into my memory, a day I claim every year as mine because soon enough, the costumes will stay in the box, the kids will outgrow “Trick or Treat,” and these blocks, these blocks we wander year after year, will lose their magic.

But tonight, tonight is a feast I savor, a day I devour whole. I pull my daughter close, feel the warmth of her tiny pink hand in mine, as she runs up to the next house with all her seven-year-old might, her voice a chorus of every child before her. “Trick or Treat!” echoing through the night like a promise finally kept.

And I stand back, this small grin on my face, knowing what I know, dreading what I dread, the years slipping away like shadows, like leaves drifting down. But tonight? Tonight, I’m right here, with all my ghosts, my little ones, my heart a bright lantern in the dark, and I swear I’m holding on to every last candy-crinkled, costume-draped, sweet, sweet step of it.

I’m in this line, feet heavy, soul dragging, wrapped around the library like a snake, past rows and rows of books gathering dust on wisdom no one’s cracked open in years. There’s an old man wearing a coat that’s older than me. He smiles at me with no teeth. A woman in a business suit, running a meeting on her phone loud enough for everyone here to participate. A girl ahead, pink lollipop, smiling, holding tight to hands that are older and wiser and, I hope, gentler than these times.

Ads ring in my mind, mud-slinging soundtracks for nightmares, campaign slogans etched in my brain like scars. All I wanted was a few quiet moments but that’s too much to ask in the month before November.

I watch the woman at the front, checking IDs, the lines of her face drawn with years and patience. “How’s your day?” “Just trying to stay out of trouble.” I grin. “Trouble just got here.” She laughs. For a moment, it’s simple, just people.

I’m angry, at systems that circle power like crows, but never drop a morsel down to the rest of us. Is this even for us? Are we all just cogs? Does anyone in this line see that, or are we content with blind faith that our vote will fix the fracture in this cracked foundation?

Finally, I’m seated, pen in hand, staring at names I know from yard signs, bad commercials, initiatives that’ll be gone from memory come Monday. Mark my choices. Make my mark. One small voice, drowned in a flood of others but somehow, still mine.

Then the sticker: proof I played my part, in the mess of it all.

All these voices here, murmuring their stories, their hopes, fears, silent screams. This is all we have, isn’t it? The ballot box, the check, the line snaking past dead words on pages, but maybe, just maybe, our whispers together make enough noise to shift the world.

So join us here. Make your mark. Let’s dream, that maybe tomorrow we’ll find a way to heal.

I see you,

Scrolling, swiping, liking,
Chasing that next hit, that dopamine drip,
The flicker of a screen like a neon god,
And you bow down.

I see you, chasing promotions,
Suit and tie strangling the heart that once ran free,
Trading hours for dollars, but at what toll?
You say it’s for success, for status, for family,
But I see the strings.
Marionettes dancing to the tune of selfishness,
The first handshake with Pride,
Ink drying on the contract of your soul.

I see you, playing, always playing,
Video games, fantasy leagues, Fantasy sites and streams
As the real world burns in the corners of your eye.
You laugh at the screens,
But you don’t see the chains tightening around your wrists.

I see you, my friends, my blood,
And I think I am better.
Better because I do not chase like you chase,
Better because I don’t fall to those same distractions.
I sit in my high tower,
Looking down on the world like a god.
And that’s the first step, isn’t it?
The first step to becoming the very thing I despise.

Then,
I feel it.
The heat of my own pride creeping in.
The road to damnation is paved, not in grand betrayals,
But in petty frustrations.

I hate the traffic,
I curse the ones too slow, too stupid to see.
I judge those selling meaningless things,
Those hawking emptiness to the masses.
They fill the world with noise,
Loud words with empty meaning
And I judge, I curse, I burn.

But who am I now?
Isn’t this the same damnation?
This quiet hatred in my bones,
The condescending smirk behind my eyes,
My own agreement with the darkness.

God,
I see it now.

I stand on the edge of the same pit,
No different, no holier.
Forgive me for the pride that chokes me,
For the small, bitter angers that eat away at my spirit.

Let me walk through this world in love,
Even if it’s hard, even if it’s just today.
Let me release the petty judgments,
Let me release the need to be above.

Help me see not the distractions,
But the hearts behind them,
The souls trying, stumbling, searching.

Let me be humble,
Not in thought but in action,
Not in grand gestures but in the small, daily breath of kindness.

If I fall, if I falter,
Grant me the grace to rise again.
Not perfect,
Just striving to be better.

Let me love,
If not for always,
At least for today.

Sunday night’s a trainwreck
rolling downhill, off the tracks,
five kids,
five stories,
five plates still stacked with homework,
responsibilities,
and dishes
but only two parents holding it together like scotch tape on a hurricane.

The oldest two—
teenagers with thumbs glued to controllers,
piling up points like responsibilities,
pressing buttons like those last-second calls to push back deadlines—
They whine like it’s their Olympic sport.
“Mom, it’s Sunday,
why do we have to think about Monday?“
as if Monday is some faraway place,
some never-land,
but it’s creeping up behind them like the unfinished math homework
sitting in a heap on their desks.

Kid three? He’s chill,
already got his backpack packed, shoes by the door,
but his eyes are locked on the football game.
The clatter of helmets smashing
echoes through the room
while he sits still, like some Buddha among the chaos,
letting the mess of the night orbit around him,
content to stay wrapped in the cocoon of the game
while the world just spins.

Kid four walks in the door,
head full of stars and stardust,
astronomy books under his arm,
like he’s just returned from another galaxy.
He stumbles over toys and laundry
but doesn’t see the mess—
just thinks about the vastness of space,
the calm of the night sky.
What’s a little chaos when you’ve touched the infinite, right?
His room smells like night air and wonder.

And then there’s her—
the youngest,
she’s everywhere.
Cartwheels across the living room,
leaps through the kitchen,
dolls scattered in her wake,
her laughter spins the air like a gymnast herself,
untethered, unburdened,
with no concept of clocks or calendars.
She’s on her own time,
and all the clocks are broken anyway.

The mother?
She’s a silent storm,
holding the weight of the world
in the slump of her shoulders.
Exhaustion hits her like a freight train
with no brakes,
but she keeps moving,
because Sunday night doesn’t care if you’re tired,
and there’s still laundry to fold, lunches to pack,
emails to send,
and a meeting in the morning
about the meetings you’ll have next week.

But the father—
oh, the father—
he’s tired, too,
but his tired’s got a different flavor.
A contentment, a joy, a peace
in the eye of this wild storm.
His boys are arguing,
his daughter’s a tornado of cartwheels,
but he breathes it in,
like the scent of fresh-cut grass at a ballpark.
Because what’s work,
what’s baseball practice,
what’s Boy Scouts and homework
and all the chaos,
when there’s laughter?

The week’s going to be a marathon:
Boy Scout meetings, cross-country practice,
baseball games,
homework deadlines snapping at their heels,
like hounds at the hunt.
But tonight,
amidst the clutter of schoolbags and video game controllers
and a living room that looks like a battlefield
of socks and Legos,
he finds peace.

The house is loud,
but his heart is quiet,
because the mess means life,
the chaos means love,
and the work,
oh, the work,
it’s the price of joy.

We sat there, me and you, under a sky that couldn’t decide if it was crying or just playing around. Raindrops like teardrops, dripping, dropping,but there we were, eating ice cream.

Chocolate chip in one hand, your tiny fingers curling around the cone, like it’s the last thing in the world you’d ever hold.

I’m watching you laugh,mouth full of sweet cream,like you just discovered joy was made of sugar,like this moment wasn’t supposed to happen— Rain? Ice cream? Together? But here it is, and so are we.

We’re a puddle of wet sneakers, melted vanilla mixing with raindrops on the sidewalk, like the sky’s got a thing for flavors too.

I say, “This is crazy,” and you say, “This is perfect.”

And maybe you’re right. Maybe rain is the sauce no one ever knew ice cream needed, maybe this is the soundtrack to a memory we’ll never forget.

You, me, a cone of something too good for words, and a sky that decided, just for today, to rain down laughter.