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JAMA. 2008;299(17):2000.

	Since this article does not have an abstract, we have provided the first 150 words of the full text and any section headings.

So convinced of the existence
of a rattle, my father made
my brother kneel in the back seat
of the Buick and move the stethoscope
across the window, the top of the seat,
the ledge below the glass,
as they drove around the neighborhood.
Nothing came through that long black tube
but my brother's fear of being seen.

Alone, stiff in the vinyl chair
at the bedside, my mother knew
the moment of my father's death
without a stethoscope. Nor did
she ring for a nurse, but sat frozen
while the heating vent at the window
blew the curtains slightly.
Then she bowed.

I found his old one coiled in a cabinet.
I put it on as a curiosity,
listened to my heartbeat, then laid it back.
I don't know what I’d expect to hear
inside the slide of my family's breathing,
or what to imagine that doesn't make a . . . [Full Text of this Article]