I arrive at the lab.
Sign in.
My name is called.

I walk to the phlebotomist.
She’s older, moving slowly.
Been here for decades.

She gently inserts the needle,
drawing blood—
careful, experienced, steady.

Her husband has cancer.
He’s struggling.
She’s struggling.
She’s kind.

We sit in silence,
feeling the weight of our different,
yet similar, circumstances.

She finishes.
Removes the needle.
Labels the vials.

“All done,” she says,
offering a tired smile.
“I hope your results are good.”
“Thank you,” I say.

I want to hug her,
but I’m not sure if that’s appropriate.
She sees a hundred of me each day.

So I leave,
heading to my next appointment,
praying silently
for her
and her husband.