In my tiny broken down house in the middle of nowhere is where they find me. the people who come to be taken care of. They say one thing but I can see that they need another, and they always come to take. But that’s ok.
In my tiny living room they sit nursing broken bones and hearts, I try to make them whole. They need blood, or flesh, or conversation it’s different every time. Sometimes they fall right over before I get to ask what’s wrong. Sometimes I have to poke in prod in all their silence until I see the flaw. And so I give them what they need. My supplies are limited, but that’s ok.
In my tiny kitchen, I feed and try to keep them healthy. They talk and talk sometimes, and sometimes I ask the questions. It soothes their heart to know that they are not alone. Sometimes they cry and once in a while I do too. But only because it’s expected of me. I don’t feel it anymore. But that’s ok.
In my dingy dining room, we gather. They are all patched up and fed. They poured their hearts and filled them up again. And when they are happy, healthy, whole; I slip away to get ready for another day. They don’t notice when I leave, but that’s ok.
And so I go to my little bathroom. The one place I can seem to keep clean. And I sit down on the floor with all my tools and start to harvest my supplies. With my razor, I cut their bandages; and with my needles, I draw their blood. The diseases they get, I get them first. I need to have the antibodies to beat them. And as I take a shower, I take stock of all my wounds. I think about my bandages and medicines and food. But I know it’s not for me. I am the doctor.
And that’s ok.