A woman smiled at me one day, her name was Margaret. The wrinkles on her face told a story and in her hands there played a motion picture. She sat crouched in a wheelchair; I sat on a stool beside her. I had been working as a phlebotomist in the University Clinic for two years. I was a friend of Margaret’s because every Wednesday at six she would arrive at the clinic for her routine blood work. Everybody liked Margaret; she used to tell us stories of her childhood and her husband who had given his life to the war. She had grown especially fond of me because “I had freckles like her grandson.” She used to come alone, but had grown weaker; this was the first time her daughter had accompanied her. Her daughter looked tired and spoke softly, “The best vein is in her hand” she explained, “it doesn’t hurt her there.” I gently placed my hand on hers, and it was cold. She looked to me and through the cold touch of her hand poured the warmth of her heart. “It’s about time for dinner don’t you think mom”, said her daughter. The clock rang six and I agreed. “The medicines have been making her sick; she sometimes has troubles keeping her food down.” I looked closely at her face; it was thin and drooped to her chest. I realized that Margaret was unable to speak. “Margaret, can you make a fist for me?” “Just like last time.” She clenched tightly. I withdrew the needle and collected a small sample of blood. She raised her head and with her frail hand, gently placed it on mine. I looked again to her eyes while placing a bandage on her hand. It was warm now. “Time for dinner mom”, replied her daughter. I smiled and waved goodbye “Margaret I will see you again next week.” She raised her head and smiled. Without a word, she made perfect sense. I never saw Margaret again.
"My teacher's long and boresome speech adds my character." " - Tigris
The great masterpieces, famous novels, biographies, books of philosophy and history have their own importance in human life. A proper and health pleasure comes from understanding properly what we read. No doubt, it requires a hard training and disciplining of our mind. But once this art is learnt, there is no end to the satisfaction and deep contentment which we can derive from this art. Milton has rightly said: “A good books is the precious life-blood of a master-spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose for a life beyond.”