her hands.

Her hands had wrinkles,

Like little valleys carved into her skin,

Veins, dark and stark, purple and blue,

Appearing overnight like honeysuckle dew.

Droopy and withered away with age,

They shook and shook, her hands so small

And wavered like an autumn leaf about to fall.

And so, I held her hand,

Her hand trembling, like a flower unfurling for the first time,

Mine steady, as an old, aged oak.

Her voice, saying words in soft, slurred speech,

Heal me, honey, heal these aching hands of mine.

See those little bottles on the wall with the little pink pills.

They wear me down, baby.

Keep me dosed and drugged up, maybe,

But in time, someday soon you’ll see

Everyone’s in the hospital someday.

And so, I held her hand,

Her hand sure, with conviction and age,

Mine young, as a newborn blinking for the first time.

She was ill, her mind was hazy and her hands shook.

And they said, she’s slowly wearing down,

Old age and disease spreading like moss on the ground,

Ugly and brittle like a lingering stench.

And so, they gave her no little, sweet lies.

They just looked at her with sad, sad eyes,

Disgusted and disparaging and waving her away,

Saying she won’t be the same.

She was ill and unwanted, but

Her eyes were clear and a gentle, delicate brown

As we talked, hand in hand.

Yes, for you, your path is healing, she said.

You should lead the pack, don’t be led.

Be strong, though these arduous years,

Filled with vigorous work and tears

And be the doctor that holds the hand with compassion.

The one that knows one day he’ll be here, sick and ill,

Taking these drugs, this horrible pink pill.

Just don’t be the doctor who only sees the patient

As blackened and disfigured and dirty with disease.