The Waiting Room, by Ed N. White

Everyone here was young once. We ran and jumped, laughed, and loved. We worked, bore babies, bore arms, and bore responsibility. Now we sit quietly waiting. Some listlessly leaf through old magazines. Some breathe aided by tubes. Some clutch their arms around them as if to hold their faltering bones in place. This is what we do now with only receding memories to explain our past. The wall-mounted TV is muted. The plants need water. The clock hands never stop. We sit quietly, without fuss, and wait for the door to open and the clipboard lady to call a name.