Spring

When M's Dad and I meet at the halfway point, we used to meet here, at this diner, owned by a crazy Greek family. George, the owner, was tough on his wife and two boys; you could see them all getting more and more frayed at the edges. I started feeling responsible for them. Then the diner closed, and I admit I was relieved, and now we meet down the road at a Shell station. Not as comfy, but the people who run the place leave us alone, which I like. L misses George; he thought it was very funny that George had a purple boob sticking out of the "O" on the side of the building. Somebody painted a nipple on it. Which reminds me, every time I see it, of a nuclear waste bunker on a Pacific atoll that's been covered over with a mount of concrete on top of which some military guy painted a round, red nipple. A toxic island with a big, white boob in the center. Suckle this. No mound too sacred to boobify.

My oncologist--as if I ever thought I'd use those two words in the same sentence--is a lovely fellow. Late 50s. Square, top to bottom, like a Lego Star Wars figure. Iranian; he immigrated with his family 30 years ago. No-nonsense out in the hallway, with his resident; booming voice carries through thin doors, and our ears work better when we're wrapped only in paper. But to me, in the room, he was kind and took time to be personal, and to tell me all the reasons why I needn't worry. He defaults to a positive message, in the absence of concrete reason not to be positive, in pointed contrast to my gynecologist, who is, I realize belatedly, the kind of doctor--always female (why is that??)--who unsettles her patients for sport. For power. The nurse-midwife who delivered M was the same way.

My sister comes to visit for a few days tomorrow. I adore her, and can't wait. I'm finishing a quilt for my boss's wife, who's about to have their second baby; trying a new binding technique at the edge and hoping I don't totally blow it. M's working on a report on Madagascar, and L is discovering he'll never be built to tackle but he can run a football like he's got wings on his heels. My grandmother used to say that if people put their troubles out on the line, they'd pull their own back in. Still true.