Mr. Bill

"He's an excellent specimen," says the professor.

"You're really good at this" say my lab partners as they decline to do anything but watch.

And they're right.  I am good at dissection.

It unnerves me how easily I slip into a clinical mode,

how interested I am in the structures revealed by the scalpel.

And Mr. Bill is an excellent specimen.

I don't want to lose sight that what lies in front of me

was once a sentient being, alive and purring.

So I named him.

And I apologize, and thank him.

And I talk to him as I learn from his remains.

And so do my lab partners.

He must have been a good hunter, says Dennis.

I hope someone loved him, says Mai. 

Mr. Bill probably took down squirrels, says Jenny.

We aren't callus. We handle him gently.  

I imagine that Mr. Bill is in some beautiful meadow 

full of mice and squirrels and other fun things.

I imagine that he has friends.

I hope he knows that he mattered.

That because of him,  there are six future nurses who have a better understanding of how bodies work.

And that we promise to pay his gift forward by helping people with what we learned from him.

I picture him sunning himself, basking in a contented pile with Ursa, Mr. Steve, Stumpy and Miss Puppy.  

Then I go to work.  And then home.

And Duncan and Lulu rush to greet me.  As I snuggle them I say silently

"This is for you too, Mr. Bill".