We eat at Olive Garden after learning if our father had stronger kidneys a portion of his intestines could have been purposed into a replacement bladder— the pouch / elimination toss weighing on cancer-free lips. My sister repeats the doctor’s credentials: University of Michigan. Cleveland Clinic. The latter where Little Italy’s chalked cobblestones spread like dominoes that make Mona Lisa or tableaus of extinct animals— the quagga hogging tiramisu. We hear ostomy in hospitaliano, worry the surgical team members are younger than us, a zipper’s pull-tab beheaded of denim in the men’s room sink.