In the dozy warmth of the packed waiting room of the X-ray department, I wanted to appropriate a mother’s comforting clucking sounds, with the tongue at the back of the mouth, for the black-haired baby. And I wanted to appropriate the sucking sounds, with the tongue to the front of the mouth, of the mother with the red-haired toddler. And I wanted to appropriate the right to bestow kisses on the chubby cheeks and silky temples of the little ones. And I wanted to appropriate the kind murmurings of a male nurse as he wheeled in an old woman, her hair stuck straight up at the back of her head where the cushion imprinted a different identity – a little bit Mohican, a little bit Mouse Bird. Yet she knew who she was, because she signed her medical aid forms. I wanted to appropriate the quiet support of husbands, wives and friends for the ultra-sounds of subcutaneous tissue and tendons. I wanted to appropriate all these things, but all I left with was another lipoma, this one in my upper arm, and more degeneration in my beleaguered right knee.
Sara P. Dias (29 August 2013)