I dream of doctors. Not just any doctor, but that one, the one we knew for six years. Though the reason we visited him at all is now gone, I still have to go to the hospital, wait two hours and see him. I do not find it strange that after all this time, all I know of him is contained in his presence. He is the thin edge of the life he carries behind him like the beam of a torch that he shields just by being there. I ask him how his hand is. The last time I saw it it was in a bandage that he took off in the hospital room where three assistants stood to attention but one was slyly checking me out, and the one nurse had an old-fashioned examination pad in hand and a file under her armpit. But he is talking about schools.
My father's dead but the doctor wants to see me tomorrow and the file is incomplete, with the originals sent off and the xeroxes lying around in a plastic bag somewhere and what is there to say and why do I have to go there again?
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3 comments:
Dreams, and so much left unsaid. Paper work and the unending tying of loose ends. One can only watch grief, walk around it tentatively seeking answers. And feeling most of the time, "What is there to say?"
The doctor's request sounds very unusual. Why indeed does he want to make you go there again?
banno: You remember this, no? That, for all practical purposes, is what this blog is about!
lekhni: that was just a dream.
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