The Physician's Patron

They say that we're the givers of life. Protectors, caretakers. Friends. It is by our steady hands that children are brought into this world, that the shattered bone mends, that the broken and battered body takes one more step, and another, and another. We are the vanguard, the shield, the guardians of the light and the beauty and the ringing of the bell and the three calm, reassuring words: "I can help."

Death is our opponent. The end, our failure and his victory, the final breath, the darkness. All that we do, we do to hold him off for another year, another month, another day. We see his dark hand in the wasting sickness, the distracted driver, the smoker's lungs. And all the while, he sits at his chess board and grins, knowing all too well that this is a game that we never will be able to win, at least not forever. Doesn't stop us from trying, of course.

We've passed each other in these halls more times than I could count. Before, I used to see him only as my enemy. Something to be staved off, avoided, defeated at any cost. Most people do. Now, I nod to him as he leaves the room, a trail of souls following him as kittens would their mother. He does not gloat. He does not weep. He only collects. One day, he and I will meet for the final time. Perhaps, on that day, he would consider me a friend.