May 20, 2011
By , Clarkston, MI
I walk down the hall of the hospital. Contaminated. Everywhere I look, there are people. Diseased, injured, ill, wounded. Different. The bare white walls give me goose bumps. The white masks and outfits of the doctors give me chills. The sharp needles being injected into people’s body, the spiky blade inserted into skin, opening up, spreading unbearable memories of this place.

I remember the time my aunt got surgery. I watched every stitch, every droplet of blood, each and every doctor’s movements involving my precious aunt. She hadn’t deserved it. Sweet as an angel, innocent, never made a mistake. Then there was my grandmother. Her head, as smooth and shiny as a baby’s bottom, kept rolling in her wheelchair on the undesirable floors – again, so nice, so kind, such a remarkable woman. They all meant the world to me. Going past their looks, I saw politeness, care, importance. People no different than us – special.

An old man in a wheelchair rolled by. He waved to me, and I gave a warm-hearted smile. My soul danced with his wave, my heart pumped with elegance. For a man without a hand, he possessed much power.

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