BROTHERHOOD
Two boys
One eleven, the other fourteen
The older one is my patient. (So is his mom.)
But the younger one draws my attention.
Bloodshot eyes, a furrowed brow.
He looks more troubled than his battered brother.
But I’m drawn into my work: the history, the exam,
There was a fight, a bad one, but the younger brother wasn’t involved.
I convince the mom that a CT-scan isn’t necessary.
“It’s safer to watch him at home and return if worse”
We’re done, but for the brother’s eyes.
“Was he crying?” I ask.
“Yes,” the mother replies, “He was afraid for his big brother.”
In the end, it is my eyes that are teary.
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I can’t remember the last time I cried at work. We see death and loss all the time in the ED. I guess I am used to it. But something about that younger brother’s degree of sympathy or fear or both definitely struck a cord. Please share a poem inspired by your own experience or brief story of your own below.