Find the cause, not the cure.
I read that today, somewhere online.
Yesterday I met someone I hadn’t seen for many years.
In a doctors surgery.
She told me that her sister had breast cancer and that she herself now had to have a mammogram.
And also, her other sister needed one.
Because they’re triplets and their mother and grandmother had died of breast cancer.
‘There are three lumps,’ she told me, ‘2 my sister found herself, and one that a scan found,’
I responded by saying something like fuck, that’s awful.
Then we swapped cancer stories while we walked in to town together.
Then she left to cut through the Co op to the post office.
‘I hope you’ve got a packed lunch,’ I said, and we both laughed, knowing how frustratingly long the queue is in the post office.
‘Someone should go up and down the aisle, like an usherette, selling coffee and sandwiches.’ I called after her.
Or vagina soup.
A2, pencils and felt pens on paper.
I think I saw something like this in my childhood and am now simply repeating it.
It feels like a complete ripoff.
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