The earliest and the faintest memory
I have of you, is you listening intently
and diagnosing your patients
in your meticulously set medicine shop,
while I'm waiting
on a wooden plank by the counter.
You handed me a mint candy
and promised
that if I wait calmly,
you'd take me to your home,
to which I smiled like a patient
relieved from a latest asthma attack.
Decades later,
things have changed drastically.
The shop is no longer there -
neither are you.
However,
I'm still waiting on the wooden plank,
in the middle of what is now a road,
faking to unwrap the candy.
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