I was there when you took your first breath.
I was there when you took your first fall, with a bandage and lollipop, and courage to try again.
I was there when you paced outside, helping to bring a part of you to life.
I was there at death’s door, keeping it shut a moment more.
And yet, you called my gifts poison, while others sold you water.
You thanked your Gods when I saved you, and raged at me when they failed you.
Do you deserve me, and do I deserve you?
Dedicated to doctors around the world
When does a war end? Is it when victory is declared? Is it when the last innocent dies? When the last shot is fired?
When is a disaster over? When the earth stops shaking or when the stormwinds fall quiet?
Is it when the last tear is shed? Is it even then, or is it when the edge of memory is dulled enough to lose its edge? Does it end at different times for each, relative like everything else?
I like to think it is when you rediscover hope. It can be fragile and easily broken, but it still rises through the mud and blooms, welcoming a new day, doomed though it might be.
Today, I got a 0.5 ml shot in my arm and watched my spouse get it, a small amount of liquid signifying a large amount of hope, fragile as it might be.
I was already one of the privileged, able to stay locked at home and safe with everyone I love. But fear is the same everywhere if you have something to lose, although we, the privileged might deserve a weaker claim to it.
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