Infinite Excuses

A long day makes me want to get home, and I’ll have
to explain, again, why I’m late to pick up the kids. The merge
onto the Expressway slows. At least the drivers stay patient,
taking turns. We keep stuttering forward until I see the cause
of our delay–two cars against the median, front and sides
crumpled metal. Next to them sits a white, windowless van.
Bare black letters announce it, Medical Examiner, looking
like a kid stenciled them on. Something about the surprise
of it sticks, even though I’m no stranger to death. So many
endings, so many of them hard to comprehend, like
the infinite excuses for violence in the world.

Through an interpreter, my patient’s parents say they are
from Palestine. They traveled halfway around the world,
for a chance they couldn’t get at home. In the morning,
a young doctor joins the team–an Israeli Jew, wearing
his kippah, assigned to care for their child for one day.
I wonder if they’ll ask me to reassign. No request comes.
The next day, they want to know where “their” doctor
is. The one who speaks Arabic, the one born so near
their home. The gentle one, the one who listens to them.