The soles of his feet had thickened so that not even the finest needle could make its way past the cream-colored, dense skin. I had seen these kind of feet often enough - in the village women who would walked upright for miles, bare, over the steaming earth- travelling undauntedly with bundles on their head, babies on their back, troubles in their heart. I had seen it in the city too, in the old men who had lost too much, gained too little and now cared not at all. Yes, I knew his feet.
So he could stand on the chilly marble floor without frowning, he could walk over the penetrating gravel without thinking.
I remember when I first met him - he was in a jolly mood. To everyone else he was John, but he was my Johnny. He wore his hair long and dreaded so that soft tangles hid, ever so slightly, poignant features. Sometimes he would wrap his mass of tender strands in a long black cloth, leaving everyone wondering about what lay beneath. Not me, I never had to wonder.
I only saw Johnny cry once, when his mother was killed in a car accident. He shed a single salty droplet that I boldly called a tear...almost dramatic, I remember. Then he gathered himself together and went off to work. They loved him in the Emergency Department - he was the doctor who never burnt out.
He let me call him Johnny. He let me call him Johnny because I had seen the soles of his feet and never bothered to ask how - how hard were his travels?