Theophilus Kwek
THE TWO BRAVEST HUMANS
DE TWEE DAPPERSTE MENSEN
‘Singapore begon [vorige december] met vaccineren, en mensen in de zorg
waren de eersten die een prik kregen…’ – Channel NewsAsia
Moeder gaat eerst, zegt ’t is niks, en doet
de ochtend erop haar rondes weer. Totaal
geen angst. Haar patiënten weten niet wat ze
gedaan heeft maar wel dat ze terug is, de verplegers
ook, op maandag donderdag vrijdag met van die
doosjes vol pillen. Soms komt er niemand anders
dus zijn alleen zij er, in handschoenen en uniform
gewikkeld, gelach toedienend. Vader is daarna
en – aangezien hij helemaal nog niet
zo heel lang beter is – veinzen we slechts
onze zorgeloosheid. Maar diezelfde week
gaat hij weer aan ’t werk, in volle gang, kliniek gevuld
op elke zachte ochtend. Bij het eten
zegt iemand op een avond wacht maar af,
iets over bijwerkingen die maanden later
pas optreden. Anderen knikken, er is zo veel
dat we nog niet weten. Het is nog licht als ik opsta
om te gaan, maar alles wat ik zie is hen
twee samen thuis, de één staand, de ander
schilderend aan de keukentafel, bruine zachte
streken van een gezicht, twee gezichten, de twee
dapperste mensen hoewel ze ’t niet zouden zeggen.
Publisher: 2023, Voor het eerst gepubliceerd op PoetryInternational.com,
THE TWO BRAVEST HUMANS
‘Singapore began its vaccination exercise [last December],with healthcare
workers the first to get the shots…’ – Channel NewsAsia
Mother goes first, says it’s nothing, is back
on her rounds the morning after. So much
for fear. Her patients don’t know what it is
she’s done but that it brings her back, nurses
too, Mondays Thursdays and Fridays with those
boxes of pills. Sometimes no-one else comes
so they’re all there is, wrapped up in their gloves
and gowns, dispensing cheer. Next is Father’s
and––since it hasn’t been that long, really
since his sickness went away––we only
pretend not to worry. But that same week
he’s back at it, full swing, his clinic packed
straight through the balmy mornings. At dinner
one night someone says maybe wait and see,
something about side effects taking months
to show. Others nod their heads, just so much
we don’t know. It’s still light when I get up
to go, but all I can see is the two
of them at home, one standing, the other
at the kitchen table painting, brown soft
strokes of a face, two faces, the two
bravest humans though they’d never say so.
Publisher: First published on poetryinternational.com,
THE TWO BRAVEST HUMANS
‘Singapore began its vaccination exercise [last December],with healthcare
workers the first to get the shots…’ – Channel NewsAsia
Mother goes first, says it’s nothing, is back
on her rounds the morning after. So much
for fear. Her patients don’t know what it is
she’s done but that it brings her back, nurses
too, Mondays Thursdays and Fridays with those
boxes of pills. Sometimes no-one else comes
so they’re all there is, wrapped up in their gloves
and gowns, dispensing cheer. Next is Father’s
and––since it hasn’t been that long, really
since his sickness went away––we only
pretend not to worry. But that same week
he’s back at it, full swing, his clinic packed
straight through the balmy mornings. At dinner
one night someone says maybe wait and see,
something about side effects taking months
to show. Others nod their heads, just so much
we don’t know. It’s still light when I get up
to go, but all I can see is the two
of them at home, one standing, the other
at the kitchen table painting, brown soft
strokes of a face, two faces, the two
bravest humans though they’d never say so.