The Healthcare Worker
"She's a Somali home health aide who cares for his elderly grandmother. The thick divorced mother comes every day, and he notices her exhaustion, her dedication, her curves. When he offers to help her the way she helps others, she finally lets someone care for her."
Ayan comes every morning at seven.
Home health aide for my grandmother—bathing, feeding, the thousand small tasks that keep the elderly alive. She's been doing this for three years, since my ayeeyo's stroke.
She's thick.
Two hundred and thirty pounds of exhaustion and dedication. Wide hips in scrubs. Heavy breasts. A face lined with the weariness of caring for others while no one cares for her.
"Iska warran, Ayan?" I ask when she arrives.
"Waan fiicanahay." I'm fine. But she's not. She never is.
I start noticing things.
The way she winces when she lifts my grandmother. The circles under her eyes. The lunch she skips because there's no time.
"When did you last eat?" I ask one afternoon.
"I'm fine—"
"That's not what I asked."
She's silent.
"Sit. I'll make food."
She argues. I insist. Eventually, she sits.
It becomes routine.
She cares for my grandmother. I care for her. Meals ready when she arrives. Tea before she leaves. Someone noticing her for the first time in years.
"You don't have to do this," she says one evening.
"I want to."
"Why?"
"Because you matter. Not just as a caregiver. As a person."
Tears well in her eyes.
"My ex-husband said I was too fat. Too busy. Too focused on work." She wipes her face. "He left three years ago. Since then, no one—"
"I'm here now."
"Wallahi?"
I take her hand.
"Wallahi."
She comes to my room after my grandmother sleeps.
"I shouldn't be here," she whispers.
"Where else would you be?"
"Alone. Like always."
"Not tonight."
I pull her close.
Her body is working-class thick.
Shoulders strong from lifting patients. Soft belly. Wide hips. The body of a woman who gives everything to others and keeps nothing for herself.
"I'm not beautiful—"
"You're the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
I push her onto my bed.
I worship the healthcare worker.
My mouth traces her body—every exhausted curve.
"No one has—" She gasps as I kneel between her thighs. "Since my divorce—"
I taste her.
She buries her face in the pillow.
"ILAAHAY!" She can't wake my grandmother. "Three years—ALLA—"
I lick her slowly. Finally, someone caring for her.
"Coming—" She's shaking. "I'm coming—ALLA—"
She explodes.
"Inside me—" She's pulling at me. "Ku soo gal—please—"
I position myself.
"Ready?"
"Haa."
I thrust inside.
She bites the pillow.
"Alla—so big—dhammaan—"
I start to move.
I make love to the caregiver.
Quietly. Carefully. The way she deserves.
"Dhakhso—faster—" She wraps her legs around me.
I pound her softly.
"Coming—" Her eyes roll back. "Ku shub—"
I let go.
I flood Ayan.
Fill her where three years of emptiness lived.
We lie tangled together, listening for my grandmother's breathing.
"Macaan," she breathes. "First time anyone's cared for me."
"Get used to it."
"Wallahi?"
"Every day. Before you care for her. After. Always."
She cries.
Then she kisses me.
One Year Later
Ayan still comes every morning.
She cares for my grandmother.
I care for her.
"Macaan," she moans quietly, as I take her before her shift. "My caregiver."
Everyone deserves someone who cares.
She finally has one.