We unknowingly wear the intimacies of our lives upon our bodies. Every scar, every scab, every blemish
lays our stories bare to those equipped to read it. Our vulnerabilities are on display for those trained
enough to recognize them. In blackened and sticky lungs, we can hear an unshakeable habit of smoking
that you had fallen into forty years ago. In a tense, tingling wrist, we may see the years you spent as a
typist to support your family. In a rash upon your forehead, we can peer into the window of your
childhood battle against chickenpox. In a downward gaze and apathetic shuffle, we may read your
depression and grief. Indeed, a good doctor recognizes your daily suffering before you have even said a
word.
By: Nishika Navrange
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