Dear patients,

I remember you.  I remember your names and I remember your stories.  Even though, I admit, I try to forget them.  When I write your story down and set fire to the paper, I think "There goes Amanda's story - up into the air."  When the masseuse works out a knot in my shoulder I think "There goes Billy."  When I cry in the car I think "I'm letting go of Pedro."  But it's not true.  You come into my life for a short time and I learn and hold your story.  Probably more than I should.  And then you're gone but I can't quite shake you myself.  I imagine someday your stories will wear off or your names will be written over so many times I won't be able to read any single one anymore.  But not yet.  Amanda, Billy, Pedro, Sara, Andre, Wendy, Janis.  Those aren't even your real names.  I can't say them here.  But I remember your names and I remember your stories.  They're written not on my heart but on my skin.