Bouquet of Sorrows The days have been strung to weeks and the weeks to a month like pearls are strung in a necklace. My mind is exhausted, and my body is drained with all that encompasses the dreaded phrase "terminally ill" attached to a loved one. As I sensitively walk down the hospital's quiet corridor, to my right side, I see a small sign that reads "chapel." And I am immediately, as if by an invisible force, drawn toward it. "Medicine to my soul," I think to myself. Perfect, at this late hour of the night, it will only be my God and me. I am ready for a heart-to-heart conversation with God, and I sigh in relief. Slowly I open the door to the chapel, and walk in. I am so ready for questions, and answers. Inside the chapel, the light is dim, but I can see a silhouette of a woman knelt in front of a wooden cross. Even though I can only see her back, she seems familiar to me. I feel as if I know her and her story. I stay still not wanting to perturb her praying. Suddenly, I am sure; I know her, her thoughts, her pains, and her sorrows. I know it, because her thoughts, her pains, her sorrows, they are all whispering to me . . .