handprints | samira
In modern-day Argentina there is a cave, and inside that cave are silhouettes of hands. We have studied the handprints, so we know the peoples in the cave used bone pipes to spray paint and stencil their fingers onto stone. Most are left hands; we assume they held the pipes in their right.
We do not know what they were thinking at the time. We simply know they were there.
Samira's final shift is a Tuesday night. When it ends, she hands in her badge and walks out into a blaze of summer sun. The day ends as it begins. She stands in the fresh air, and she inhales.
A man is going to live because of her. Because of the pump of her hands on his chest, palm on his sternum, fingers spread, weight bearing down. She gave him days, maybe years, and she can feel the ache in her pectorals still.
There are patients who know her by name, and they may notice she is gone. Perhaps they will miss her. Perhaps they will wonder, once, where she went. Then they will forget.
She did not carve anything here. She leaves tomorrow; she is out of time.
We know the painters in the cave stood, palm on stone, fingers spread, still. We know they pulled their hand away then and went back to their lives, and the handprint stayed. Maybe that's why they traced their hands to begin with.
It's hard to know what you'll leave behind. If you'll leave anything. If you'll be remembered.
Samira kicks at one of the bricks by the door, scuffing it with her toe. I was here.
