Day 1,114

The doctor whose hands
carefully managed the instruments
that removed the bullet
from your child’s brain.
The doctor who knew
what your cousin’s illness
was, though he didn’t have
medicine to treat it.
The doctor who held
your friend’s son
and told her
he wouldn’t live, and sat
with your friend
through the night
as the child drew his last
breaths, when she
could have gone back
to where she was living.
Doctors murdered. Imprisoned.
Tortured for saving lives
the oppressor doesn’t want saved.
You are watching your child
running along the path
between tents. Barefoot.
Chasing his friends. His laughter
rings through the air.
He is alive, who well might not
have been. His doctor, long
dead, has left this legacy.