When a nurse calls early and says she has the results of the chest x-ray, I’m standing in the kitchen.
A kitchen of muffin tins and cracked eggs and two frying pans and the bacon already gone.
She puts me on hold to get the file.
I scratch away at the glass splattered stovetop with a razor, as if there’s this way — this way to cut things right down to the bone of things.
The nurse gets back on the phone and talks about those x-rays I had over the weekend.
And I’m wondering why in the world getting breakfast for three starving teenagers, two bottomless boys and a curly-haired tomboy, and a hard-working Dutch farmer, leaves one kitchen looking like something eggy and oiled exploded volcanic?
This stovetop is going to need more than a razor.
“But your doctor looked at them this morning and it look’s like, from your chest x-rays…”
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Published on October 22, 2013 05:37