This morning my tumor was removed by a beautiful and intelligent woman who listened carefully to my ideas about breasts. Mom and Ken bought me a poem at Seattle’s Columbia City farmer’s market this evening (the guy on the left, AKA “Trip”). I think the poet makes a nod to Mary Oliver’s Wild Geese.


With the last drips of painkillers coursing my veins and the hospital bracelet like an all hours pass to a really great show, today I sampled that farmer’s market like a garden of delights. Between my unhinged chats with various booth owners, Eric indulged me in buying African sun hats, wisely choosing to stay quiet about how we live in one of the rainiest communities in the United States. I spent no less than 30 minutes bargaining with the African hat man, leaning back in the sun against his Previa minivan like I had never experienced metal so warm, conversation so beguiling, hats so sturdily crafted. I believe I agreed to market his hats and baskets in Alaska, where, I assured him with an earnest nod, the sun hat market is untapped.

I know pain will settle in later, that I will need to peer under the Ace wrap that now comfortably hugs my new chest. But today was for the poetry of painlessness. For “clean fresh fall air,” and the “weeping need to be well.” For the “River taking us somewhere we needed to go.”  For my family, for joy, for “togetherness.”