*
Her question flashes me back maybe five years. B. is two or a little shy, and he's sitting in a cart seat at TJ Max while the clerk fills our with bags and engages him. Suddenly, the little B. takes the measure of the bagger and says, loudly, "You're black!" I have the feeling that someone has instantly squeezed all the air from my lungs, even though B's comment is a) factual; b) inevitable in one of the whitest states in the country; and c) not pejorative in the slightest. Still -- it's amazing how the mind races, even when suddenly deprived of oxygen -- the clerk may be offended, it's got to be hard dealing with all the comments, some of them probably nasty. But the old guy laughs and says, "Yes I am!" The air floods back into my lungs. Later I laugh about the clerk's grace and my surprising clumsiness.
*
On the tire stack, I try to summon the TJ Max clerk's wisdom. "Yes, I do!" I say cheerfully. M___ turns away to scrabble higher up the tires, her pony tail bobbing. I can't imagine what she is thinking. What is cancer to her -- something that killed a grandparent? Something scary overheard from adult whispers? Nothing at all? I want to give her some of my kid spiel about cancer -- that you can't catch it from me or Bay, doctors can often cure it, etcetera -- but I refrain. B. is tugging on my hand and beginning to tell me about how he beat a second grader in chess by promoting a pawn into another queen.
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