“what cha in for?”
the man beside me
leans over as though
we are old friends.
”knee,” i say,
pointing to the knee.
”rotator cuff,”
he answers,
sliding his hand
along the table.
we both laugh.
around us
the repair shop is busy.
knees,
backs,
shoulders,
necks,
feet,
hands,
even eyes,
and the souls
attached to them
arriving carrying
what hurts,
what will not move,
what frightens them.
and we are met by
potters,
professors,
sculptors,
engineers,
even MacGyver,
i swear.
these healers
reassure us,
reacquaint us
with our own bodies.
this muscle.
this tendon.
this movement.
this compensation.
they somehow know
what we are doing
before we know
we are doing it.
around the room
are the instruments
of their craft,
some recognizable,
some requiring
a small act of faith.
bands are tied.
weights attached.
machines adjusted.
we are asked to perform
movements so small
they hardly seem
like exercise at all,
but under the hood
muscles awaken,
nerves remember,
joints negotiate,
and bodies begin
learning themselves again.
then comes
the compassionate ambush.
”five minutes.”
five minutes later.
“five more?”
”need a rest?”
i dare not say yes.
”i’m good,”
i hear myself say.
no one sees
the marathon inside.
but they are watching.
knowing when to push.
when to wait.
when fear is speaking.
when the body
has truly had enough.
they work
with the patience of potters,
the knowledge of professors,
the hands of sculptors,
the minds of engineers,
the ingenuity of MacGyver,
and the stubborn hope
of a cobbler
who knows
a worn sole
can still carry someone home.
and somewhere
among all this repairing
something else happens.
we become neighbors.
whatever might divide us,
here,
strangers root for strangers,
celebrate another inch,
another step,
another try.
no explanation needed.
we know what it costs
to do the thing
that once came easily.
one day
i am dangling my leg
from another contraption
when i notice
an older couple.
he sits nearby
in his Stetson,
watching the
love of his life
work.
her task seems simple.
pick up a cone.
except it isn’t simple.
not today.
she reaches.
tries.
misses.
tries again.
and suddenly
i am no longer thinking
about my knee.
i am willing her hand
toward that cone.
’come on.
you can do it.’
i whisper.
and she gets it!
my joy escapes me.
her husband turns
towards me,
his face carrying
a pride so tender.
i understand immediately :
i have just witnessed
something enormous.
the victories
would look so small
anywhere else.
another degree.
another step.
another cone.
another five minutes.
but in this room,
we know.
and moving quietly
among all of us
are the gentle warriors.
they see possibility
when we arrive.
they work on
our broken parts
until we begin
to understand
we were never
broken.
and eventually,
someone rings the bell.
we celebrate
the one who made it there,
the miles hidden
inside those few steps,
the fear overcome,
the body trusted again.
but i have been watching
those standing nearby.
perhaps the bell
belongs to them, too.
because every time
it rings,
another frightened soul
has learned
to trust their body again.
that is the strange beauty
of these healers.
they work toward the day
when we will no longer
need them.
and when at last
we walk out that door,
they turn
toward the next soul
coming in.
”tell me what hurts?”
© 2026 Corvalya