I enter triage, take my number, and sit down.
The man seated to my right is large - in a healthy way - his expression placid and warm.
Drifting through space, I'd felt his gravitational pull: his planet, his star so familiar.
Perched on each knee is a toddler, leaning back.
As if from a ventriloquist comes the sound -
a loud, erratic clock. The man's eyebrows move:
not in time,
as if to bury the trick even deeper.
It seems unlikely - here, in the hushed and busy
hospital - but clearly, it emanates
from this gentle giant.
Gentle, timeless giant.
The sound seems to placate the boys, an ancient lullaby.
Until the older brother asks - he is three, maybe four -
What's taking mommy so long?
The soft, almost whispered response comes tumbling, bathing baritone like swich licour.
The man and sons rise to fetch her, she's just done at the
window with her chemo appointment check-in;
they walk away, small hands in large.
so lovely.
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