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From 1998.
Meeting my oncologist for lunch
You look once at me over the minestrone and I'm eleven again.
Let your voice drop the way it did in the quiet room when you explained about the shade in the x-rays and it is there again beneath my seventh rib.
Damned if I didn't grow up! It's been sixteen years since we spoke and it shows in your hearing aid, the magician who makes things disappear beneath dressing gowns, the alchemist who could conjure the metal of time from nothing is hard of hearing. You tell me about the son who's my age, we talk about disease. I want to ask you for a language to talk about this, I want to tell you that I believe
in cancer, in the bloody being of the tumor, and in radiation. That I believe in the diagnosis, in adriamycin, prednisone, vincristine, The Trinity, the survivor who suffered, the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting, amen.
But I don't, and neither do you. We argue over the check, and you win again. Did I ever thank you? So.
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