January 3, 2013 Small Stone # 3:
We did that dance that intimate strangers do,
the smile
the nod
the how-do-you-do?
Faces close enough to kiss,
breathing in one another's warm exhalations…
her hands swathed in blue latex,
scrapey-thingy in one hand, mirror in the other
with both hands in my mouth
she relays the story of her two-year-old daughter
who is a survivor, who is a fighter, an endangered Bengal tiger…
She was no more my tormentor...
instead she was simply a mother who comforts the mute
while probing gum pockets,
scraping away plague,
and making note of fractured molars in need of repair…
She spoke of cancerous cells
invading her infant's body,
stealing her dear one's sight…
She spoke of tireless journeys
from I-59 to I 55, Memphis bound
from I-59 to I 55, Memphis bound
where her daughter boxes
round after round of radiation at St. Jude's.
She spoke of never giving up and chasing hope
while examining and polishing my teeth.
She is a dreamer, a hoper, a never-give-up-er…
She said, "I'll see you in six months, Tracei."
I said, "Thank you, Christine…"
Intimate, yes.
Strangers, no longer.
round after round of radiation at St. Jude's.
She spoke of never giving up and chasing hope
while examining and polishing my teeth.
She is a dreamer, a hoper, a never-give-up-er…
She said, "I'll see you in six months, Tracei."
I said, "Thank you, Christine…"
Intimate, yes.
Strangers, no longer.
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