The Obituary
By Wesley L. Leigh

At exactly a quarter to midnight at Crescentview Heights Convalescent Home, Dr. McKinley began his late night rounds on his patients. A creature of habit, he sported the same attire each night: dark tweed jacket, bow tie, and trousers. He religiously avoided the white coat as it seemed too cold and impersonal. Aging himself with a steady pair of bifocals resting on the tip of his nose, the doctor had an excellent bedside manner. A charismatic figure, patients' overlooked his eccentric hours and anticipated his arrival. Never impatient, he took his time with each resident, a quality they found lacking in the younger physician.

He strolled through the double doors of the east wing and imparted a quiet nod to the staff at the nurse's station. Preoccupied, they paid him little notice and continued on with their nightly tasks. Unfazed by the oversight, and still bearing a cheerful grin, he began his rounds in the first patient room on the left, that of Mr. Theodore Beasley. Stricken with Parkinson's dementia, Mr. Beasley barely acknowledged his arrival. Saddened by his deteriorating state, the doctor sat on the edge of the bed and read the patient's chart. After a few minutes of deliberation, he stood and removed his worn stethoscope from his medical bag and lightly auscultated the old man's heart and lungs.The parameters were normal, though his arms and legs were stiffer than the week before. Determined to illicit a more encouraging response before moving on, the physician lightly squeezed Mr. Beasley's left hand. The human touch, he felt, was sometimes the best medicine. For a brief moment, the sickly patient opened his eyes and smiled, almost in reverence. With a sentimental twinkle in his eye, the doctor smiled and moved on to the next patient.

His presence next rested with Ms. Clarisse Long, the sleeping resident in room two. At nearly a century old, she'd been Dr. McKinley's third-grade teacher at Point View Elementary countless years ago. Angelic with long silver locks splayed across the pillow, she slept with a faint smile across her lips, as if wishful of death. He expected to hear of her passing any day now. With her beloved husband long deceased, she often told the doctor she wished to join him. Sadly, she had never successfully conceived. Her children were her former students, many of whom paid her regular visits. Some had regrettably passed on. Not wanting to disturb her peaceful rest, the doctor removed his stethoscope and ever-so-gently placed it atop her frail chest. Her heartbeat was slow and steady, nearly permitting to death if she so allowed it. He quietly backed away, doubtful as to whether he would find her present on his next rounds. An uncanny sixth sense told him he most likely wouldn't.

Meanwhile at the east wing nurse's station, Ruth Voorhees, the night supervisor, neatly organized the physician order sheets for the next morning. She placed them in the empty bin next to the Dictaphone and took a seat at the long rectangular table occupied by the three nurses on duty. Their initial tasks complete, they settled down to pass the hours with conversation. Close associates, no one had worked at Crescentview Heights under a decade. At twenty-three and a half years,Nurse Voorhees had been there the longest, followed by Nurses Hayworth, Myers, and Goldstein, all situated about the table.