My father would take me on his rounds
I was maybe three or four
The practice included the elderly
Chronic cases lying abed
I would study their wrinkles
As they responded to his gentle queries
Or not
I would sit on a footstool in the O.R.
As he stitched up some drunk
Feet cut up like hamburger
From barefoot dancing in broken bottle territory
Anglers with hooks embedded in their scalps
Woodsmen whose axes had slipped
The nurses would keep their eyes on me
Watching for signs of distress
I guess
But I was cool with it
All
Case by case
Then, housecalls
Yes, he did those
Driving fast down country lanes
In sportscars
The MGB took corners fast
From house to house
At some I’d be invited in to sit in the kitchen
Strange immigrants of dubious origin
Funny old ladies in Ma Kettle dresses
Would force me to eat dusty cookies
Petrified into cement
Or so it seemed
Tagging along
Waiting to move to the next mystery
The next round
David Trudel © 2012
Nice–great that your Dad took you.