You Were Welcome In

My door opens, and even before I see him,

familiar fumes of antiseptic soap and surgical gloves

alert me of his presence.

He’s finally home tonight, but it’s too late anyway.

He won’t ever truly escape those blue scrubs

or the stethoscope locked around his shoulders.

I’ve come to realize that now.

He has tried though,

even here as he creases a smile through his tired expression.

I am not to blame for his stress beaten hair and wrinkled face.

His voice is not worn and raspy from scolding me.

His knuckles are not sore from tying my shoes.

In fact, every mark of age and passage through life

that I can see on this man standing in my doorway

came from somewhere on the other side of it.

Roxanna Eftekhari

Medical Student, Year 4