Abstract
The blade of the mower sliced your toe on a day otherwise unremarkable, sliced your big toe and sent it bouncing like Marie Antoinette's head from the heavy, sliding guillotine, painfully like your first daughter who came bright, high and even. You took your toe with you to the hospital before microsurgery could amend your abrupt amputation, despite your knowledge of medicine you dispensed on Saturday afternoons, leaning back against the sink's counter, smiling so that your mole beneath your eye stood in bold relief, smiling to explain some principle of biochemistry. Impromptu lecturer, you made your mark when you escorted a nephew of your soon-to-be husband to Walter's Art Gallery in downtown Baltimore, where the wealthy come for lunch in the midst of the city's Old World flavor.
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