Comfort is a plexiglass
arrangement of
butterfly wings in the stairwell leading down to my pediatrician’s office, Doctor K.
He is a warm man with firm tone of voice.
With a lot of gray in his hair.
I am six years old on my mother’s shoulder,
taking in the lights and colors.
Unaware that I am about to take a shot in my arm.
I scream and plead. But there is no memory of the shot.
I cannot remember Doctor K’s face. Or the advice he gave the last time we spoke.
He is long dead now.
The hospital is a crater.
Or a parking lot.
After the shot, I come back up the winding stairwell
again.
FDM.
El Golpe Avisa 