(p107)“On Growth and Form”, D’Arcy Wentworth Thompson

There is a patient. The patient is patiently sitting, in the room where waiting takes place. The patient sits very still but is not still because in the patient’s pocket is a jar.

And in that jar: bees.

As the patient sits, the bees are working. The patient does not notice all the comings, goings, sittings, standings, callings-out and children moaning. The patient pats the jar and thinks of honey.

In the doctor’s office, they talk about the patient’s leg, and all the while, the bees are working. The doctor notices how calm the patient is, how there’s no grumbling, no depression. The doctor starts to smile and thinks how smiling isn’t something often caught inside this office.

The doctor needs to see the wound. The patient moves towards the bed, but before undressing takes out the jar and puts it on the doctor’s desk. The doctor is about to speak but then sees what is in the jar. The doctor bends towards it. Looks up at the patient, then back down at the jar. The doctor’s smile is growing, growing.

The patient’s lying down; the doctor’s hands are washed. The doctor looks into the wound. The doctor’s seen so many wounds like this. Sometimes the doctor thinks they’re like red wide mouths, grinning and gaping, uncloseable, unshrinking. The doctor looks and makes a note, then looks again. Nothing’s changed. Why won’t this one heal up? Why don’t the sides of skin slim into one another like a snapping handbag? Why can’t the doctor help?

The patient doesn’t seem to mind. The patient is quite calm and stating facts, not asking, not demanding. The patient doesn’t seem to need the doctor to do anything at all. The doctor repeats what’s been said before about caring for a wound, keeping healthy. The patient shakes the doctor’s hand.

The doctor writes more notes then saves the file and is about to ask the next one in when something moves.

The jar.

The bees.

The doctor picks up the jar, moves towards the door, runs down the stairs. But the patient’s gone. The doctor stands in the doorway, smiling. The doctor stands there smiling, jar in hand, and thinks of honey.