I’ve been breaking
skin. Since last week at work, when I slashed
open my forearm, scraping it midway between elbow and wrist, against the chipped
edge of the kitchen shelf. I was reaching for something. I can’t remember what because the pain seared
up my spine with such speed that everything in me gasped and I left the kitchen
empty handed, mesmerized by my injury. The skin had folded back on itself and
there was a smooth white layer of untouched flesh. I watched, troubled and intrigued,
as the swollen island leisurely beaded with blood.
That was the first.
A day later, at home, I was
opening a can of olives, the green Trader Joe’s can with the pop-tab-pull that
always makes me think of sardines. While I’ve never actually opened a can of sardines
those lids always seem safer than the wrinkled-ragged edge a can-opener leaves
flappingly attached, a malicious and menacing magnet. Maybe it was the illusion
of safety that caught me unsuspecting.
The sweat of my surprise flew up my body to my brain as frantically as
green olives flooded the floor.
The olive episode involved only
one Hello Kitty Band-Aid and the comfort of seeing red seep through Hello
Kitty’s fair face. The slash on my forearm required two floral Cynthia Rowley
Band-Aids, a generous daub of Neosporin and exceptionally careful placement. Band-Aids are measurable, they offer precise evidence
of damage done, and you can push on the pain periodically and chart the
progress of your recovery.
The third. Smacking a bottle
of Paul Mitchell against my palm, to coax the mockingly thick thickening conditioner, I was left with
a half moon hack in my hand, a woeful foreboding, and a bruise on my foot where
the unkind bottle landed.
I actually prefer bruises,
even though they may ache more than a clean cut. They communicate clearly, like a mood ring,
and entail no additional attention. Bruises are merely colorful creatures that
remind you to slow down and eventually move along leaving you unmarred. Breaking
skin is a whole other animal.
The rest. Not warranting
their own number, three scraped knuckles opening a pack of batteries, a scratch
on the side of my face from my own car door, a ripped cuticle reaching into the
glove compartment, a gash above my knee from yesterday’s hike, just a fallen
branch that reached out and bit me. More blood, nothing all that dramatic, no
tears. All of these, the numbered and not, just areas of flesh that, if accidently
brushed against, might bring a minor flash of surprise.
So this morning, before I shower,
I pull off all my Band-Aids. I feel the prickles as the adhesive takes some
hair. As I examine my wounds, I am
pleased by the improvements. I call out to David because he is the best
spectator. My forearm still looks like an island, but more like the Hawaiian Islands,
raised and scabbed and healing. The
scratch on my face is barely there and the half moon has healthily hardened. I show
him my knee and remember standing at the peak of Mount Islip less than
twenty-four hours ago. I say to David, as I do every day after we’ve hiked,
“Kerry would be blown away if he knew I was hiking, he would be crazy proud.”
I did not intend to inspect
this wound as well.
The sting of hot water on
broken skin is entirely bearable.
The sting of brokenness,
immeasurable, unseen, is less so.
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Mount Islip, 8521' |
Simply gorgeous.
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