“Poetry is finer and more philosophical than history; for poetry expresses the universal, and history only the particular.” Aristotle
“So what happened?” The doctor asked. He looked to be no more than fifteen and had a manic yet caring presence. We’d been watching him running in his clogs from one bed to another only minutes before he walked into our cubicle. He seemed to take a lot of time with each patient. But perhaps that was my impatience showing. We’d been sitting in the same spot for nearly an hour.
My dad sat in his undershirt, his dress shirt off. His chest, arms and the top of his head were covered in bruises and bandages. His broken collarbone stuck out in such a way that I could see the fracture without the need for an x-ray. Still the x-ray flashed on the screen behind him, the break confirmed in case I had any doubt.