“Mama, do pigs have extracts?”
That was kind of difficult to answer as it was. I was thinking along the lines of blood and tissue extracts, so I had to ask back, hoping he meant something else. “What do you mean extracts?”
“Extracts, you know. Extracts.” He was literally wracking his brain to come up with a much better word, but the word proved elusive, to say the least.
That was my cue to fill in the blanks. “Like juices you extract from a fruit?” Juices from a fruit were definitely okay. But juices from a pig? I had to wince at the thought.
His face lit up like a candle in a dark night. “Yes, that’s it!”
So he was thinking along the same lines I was. “Sure. They do have extracts.”
“Okay.” Thank goodness he didn’t ask me to elaborate. I wasn’t sure how and where to begin explaining anyway. But then again, there was always the Internet to turn to just in case.
That magazine show on TV
He then proceeded to another topic altogether. “I saw on Rated K this old woman with a sagging face.” He made a face to illustrate his point. “The doctors took some fats from her stomach to put on her face. And then the sagging face was gone.” He meant tissues from the old woman’s body, probably near the abdominal area.
“Who did you watch this episode with?” I asked.
I simply nodded.
“After that, they showed a man with a flat nose,” he continued eagerly, knowing he found an attentive audience in me. “They injected something in his nose and fixed it up. And then he was looking better.”
“Okay. And then?”
“And then, there was this woman who had her lip injected with something,” he continued with matching gesticulation. “After the injection, her lips looked different.”
“Different? How different?”
“Just different. They even showed her holding hands with her boyfriend afterwards.”
Uh-oh. “And then?”
“And then, the show is over.”
“When you grow up, will you want to have your lips injected with whatever it is they injected into that woman’s lips?” I asked for the sake of conversation.
The answer was immediate. “No.”
He covered his mouth, shaking his head.
“Come on. Why not?”
“I don’t know,” came his muffled voice. “I just don’t want to.”
“There should be a reason why you don’t want to.”
It was Kurt who answered. “They would be pricking his lips with a needle. That would be painful. And then, he would cry and cry and cry.”
My eight-year old buried his face in his hands.
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