Dear Madam
by Meredith Citkowski
Dear Madam,
It’s odd to think that on one hand I might
In this short time already know more about you than almost anyone
And yet I don’t even know your name.
Maybe one day I will.
Until then, I won’t call you by the number on the table
Or the tag on your toe
So, Madam will have to do.
Dear Madam,
I don’t know what you did for work
Or what your title was.
Did you have one?
I don’t know what kind of car you drove
And I don’t know what kind of clothes you wore.
Isn’t it odd?
All of the differentiators we work for
Fail to differentiate us
When we’re lying in rows
With cautious students peering down.
And anyway
Whatever you did
Or drove
Or wore
I just hope you enjoyed it all.
Dear Madam,
I find myself reflecting on your life despite not knowing anything about it.
Did your muscles tense and relax as you wiggled your toes in the sand at the beach?
What sorts of games did you play as a child?
Are these the knees you scraped, learning to ride a bike or playing on the swings?
Someone held your hand for the first time.
Who was it? A first date? Were you nervous?
Dear Madam,
I wonder what you liked to eat,
Which flowers you liked to smell,
And what kind of music you listened to.
I wonder what the world looked like through your eyes.
And when I look at your eyes, I wonder who else looked –
Not at them, like I am –
But into them like I can’t.
And what did they see?
What made them fold in laughter or swell with tears?
How many feelings, I marvel, must your eyes have reflected over the years.
Dear Madam,
It might be strange to say that the tendons of your foot are unexpectedly beautiful,
But they are.
And you’ve taught me already
To look carefully and intentionally
At things I might have taken for granted
Or glossed over.
The intricate design of the body
So wonderfully made, so elegant and precise
Stands at odds with its fragility and temporality
Like perfectly the aligned crystals of a snowflake
That melt instantly on my hand.
Dear Madam,
And I’ll never know some things about you
(Or him)
(Or her)
Because the rows of tables don’t have designer labels
Or desk plaques
Or balance statements.
Just ages and dates.
Dear Madam,
I don’t know anything about your house
Or whether you had a dog
Or how you drank your coffee.
And I see why some would ask,
Is this body all that remains of us, while everything else fades away?
Although I can’t help but believe,
This body is all that fades away, while everything else of us remains.
Meredith Citkowski is a second-year medical student at the UTCOMLS
