By Jacqueline Lahav
I was in such a daze as we left the hospital that I barely registered the woman walking a leashed hog right past us on 1st Avenue. “Is that a pig??” my mom asked with disgust, her expression frowned for other reasons that day. I remember my eyes skimming over the animal, noting the hair on its body. “I think it’s a hog,” I answered quietly, mechanically, pushing the stroller up the avenue with my almost three year old son in tow. We continued our walk quietly, unwilling to break our silence until we felt the privacy of the quiet of my car give us permission to speak. “Jackie,” she started, and I started to sob. “He’s healthy, he’s fine,” she said. “Who’s gonna marry him?” I squealed in a child-like voice through my gigantic tears. “You know who’s going to marry him. Someone who will love him for the amazing person he is, someone who isn’t so shallow so as to consider this a problem.”
