Sitting on the hospital patio, I tried to feel what they may have felt, gazing off into the mountain scenes. Healing, hopefully. Late 1800's, a far away U.S. military fort, built to patrol and protect the old 600 mile San Antonio-El Paso Road. Fort Davis, named for Jefferson Davis (Yes, that Jefferson Davis), established in 1854, before the country split over bondage and chains--I'm damn glad the Yanks won, damnit! Ironically, the Buffalo Soldiers were later stationed here and went on to earn legendary American status.
It was no use, though, they didn't have Miles Davis through an ear pod, or an ice cold koozied bottle of Spaten Oktoberfest, or a car ready to cruise back to a comfortable Alpine adobe. I hadn't seen what they'd seen, I wasn't where they were, I could never feel what they felt. Time and space move together. These fort buildings and ruins were just bones, there was no life in them. This was a museum now, and a good one, worth the $10 bucks.
But many were healed, no doubt. Broken bones, knees, seed oil allergic reactions, dehydrations, attacks of all kinds. Fixed up. Operations to remove bullets, arrows, and other things needing removal. Tooth extractions, pox quarantines, strokes, aneurysms, mountain lion attacks, they probably saw it all at the Fort Davis Hospital, thousands of prayers were offered here, maybe millions.