Jill Muhrer
Grace
In exam room 7, he paces. Emaciated, disheveled, reddish hair, and the tattoo of an eagle in a nest of needle tracks on his arm. Recalling near-death experiences, he doesn’t trust himself to last the night without using. The next time will be the last.
He has traded his family, career, and body for the euphoria of weed, followed by opiates, then heroin. A euphoria that provides him with the freedom he craves, but in their absence, betrays him.
a stranger
stares from the mirror
his own face
No treatment available… delays, requirements, the quicksand of it all. What will he do? Where will he go?
Outside the window, he sees his sycamore tree. He calms briefly. “That’s my home. The branches are my roof, and the subway vent provides warmth.”
In exam room 8, she waits. She is here for follow-up concerning her hypertension, diabetes, heart failure and arthritis. Although she arrives early, she recognizes the greater need of the emergency in Room 7, and agrees to let him go first. She has been forced to use an electric wheelchair—red, with photos taped to it and a basket holding her purse and tape player. Her gospel music—the freedom that transcends her suffering.
Through the wall between them, the gospel she is singing reaches him. He pauses for a moment as we all sit in reverence.
freight train whistles
through twilight frost
the call of church bells
About the Author
Jill Muhrer is a recently retired nurse practitioner who is currently focusing on writing. Her haibun and haiku have appeared in Cattails, The Haiku Journal, Modern Haiku, and Drifting Sands. She enjoys writing medical narratives and has published in Pulse—Voices from the Heart of Medicine, Intima: A Journal of Narrative Medicine, and the American Journal for Nurse Practitioners.