Scars

When I was maybe 5 years old I can remember standing in the kitchen, watching as my dad was getting ready to leave for a trip.  I don’t recall ever showing any outward displays of longing for his affection or attention because I knew my efforts would be dismissed.  But on this day my dad seemed to express an interest in me he normally didn’t; he spent time with me in my world which he usually didn’t do.  So as he was preparing to leave I thought, here is my opportunity for physical contact (besides the spankings he so willingly delivered).  I was terrified he would leave before I got to hug him and say goodbye so I quickly ran to him pleading, “Daddy, wait, don’t go!”  But what I got instead was the corner of a built-in cutting board jutting out from the counter.  I was just its height and as I ran, oblivious, it jabbed me right above the eye (my coordination has always been terrible).  My mother rushed me to the ER where I received stitches. I never did get to say goodbye or give my father the hug I so desperately wanted.  And it would be years before I would find my next opportunity for one.  I had already learned my lesson.

Advertisements

Hey you! Got something to say?

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s