Saturday, August 29, 2009
B. is a strong woman.
She keeps herself trim and in shape by hard work on her own piece of land. She’s quiet as the Texas plains in the mid-day heat and beautiful in such a way you don’t often see the likes on TV, for she’s not smooth cheeked with sophisticated hair. She's better than that. Simpler. Deeper. Richer. Highly seasoned and elaborately prepared for the rest of her life by past sadness and trial. You can see them in her face, feel them across the table.
Like the Ford truck, she’s Texas tough.
The other day at a luncheon, surrounded by small talk, B. leans over and asks me if I’d like to see her mastectomy scar. I would. I’ve wondered. I’ve seen pictures on the Internet but never in person.
B. stands up and heads to the restaurant’s bathroom. I follow and press my butt against the door so nobody else can enter. Calmly, she bears her chest. She shows me her scar, her prosthesis. She lets me look and touch. She encourages questions. Then she buttons up her shirt and leaves the room.
I profess to have to pee and don’t leave with her. Really, I’m taking a moment to mentally regroup. Reality has hit me hard. In all probability I’ll have two scars like the one she showed me. And if I’m lucky, I’ll be as brave as she is, for, as I stand alone in the bathroom, I ponder on the courage it took for that private woman to offer such an intimate show and tell.
B.’s my latest hero. She’s my new breastfriend.