A Reminder

They fall off in marathon runners. They are dressed in “fifth avenue,” “bikini so teeny,” and “minimalistic” for trips to the beach. They are impossibly small in newborns.

They are distinctly human.

They were the first thing I noticed in the anatomy lab. The face was covered, the body displayed, but the toenails were a reminder that this wasn’t just a body – this was once a living, breathing person.

These toenails had once constantly been growing. A sure sign of life. They were cut countless times in their long life.

Did any of them fall off? Were they bruised by fallen books, plates, and boxes? Were these toes stubbed on tables, sofas, and chairs?

Did these feet dance with a lover? Did they feel sand and tides beneath them? Did they jump at a concert? Did they climb over hills and rocks and mountains?

Did they run on the playground? To hug a loved one? To feel the ground beneath them?

Did they stand proudly on a graduation stage, at a wedding altar, in a hospital room in the labor and delivery wing? Were they counted and cherished?

Were their first steps met with a hug? Their last?

They have now lost their pinkish hue. Instead, they have become a muted gray. They have stopped growing.

You are left with stories etched into calloused feet.

Ready and available to teach. A reminder of where you’ve been, what you’ve seen.

And we’re ready to listen.