Painful Memories

Every time I wash my hands, I see it. Now, I cannot even remember when it wasn’t there. Carved into my palm like a river; jagged, rough, white. That damn scar always reminds me of kindergarten!

I begged my grandmother for the jar, she must have said no a dozen times, but I wore her down. When she held it out to me, it was like I had just won the lottery. I snatched it from her hand and darted like a mad man for the screen door. “No time to waste,” I thought to myself. “There are bugs to be caught, and bugs wait for no one!”

As I reached the steps, it was like I was walking on air. “Wait a minute,” I thought, “I am walking on air.” I was falling, falling fast. I released the grip on my pimento jar, opening my hand to brace myself for the impact, but the jar remained in place. As I crashed to the ground, I noticed the jar had shattered under my hand. Wiggling and turning, I made my way back to my feet. Turning my right hand over, I could feel the warmth as two fingers fell lifelessly away from my hand. They dangled there like two crooks hanging from the gallows in an old western movie. A thin piece of skin was the only thing keeping my fingers attached to my hand. Feverishly, I tried to press them back in place, but the blood just kept oozing. I was calm, and there was no pain. “That’s odd,” I thought to myself. “I’d better go show mama.” I figured she was going to find out sooner or later anyways.

Holding my fingers in place, I approached my mother. Silently I stood there; I let go with my left hand. My fingers fell limp and the blood began dancing down my arm. My mother was naturally light complected, but now she was as white as fresh snow. Dragging me, she frantically rushed me into the bathroom. The blood stained the water like red dye as it drifted down the drain. She lost all of her senses that moment, but my father appeared, and he became the calm voice of reason. He led me out to the car and my grandmother struggled to keep up as she wrapped my hand in a dishcloth.

Thirty-six stitches and about eight pounds of gauze later, I made my way to the first day of kindergarten. I remember lugging my enormously bandaged hand into the classroom. Everybody starred at me, and then the giggles began. I wanted play with the other kids at recess, but I couldn’t because I had this gynormous bandage holding me back. I longed to get into that sand box and play with those trucks; instead, I got to sit quietly next to my teacher and stare at my hand while the other kids that had two good hands played catch. They would catch the ball and then look over at me and laugh. Every time this memory plays out in my head, the pain does not come from the cut or the scar on my hand. The pain comes from the scar imbedded on my soul as the other kids made fun of me. I hate that damn scar!