Scarred Memory
I've got one under my right wrist. It seems physics was against me the day I pressed my hands against the pane of glass. The neighbor boy's were ready to squirt me with mustard. The glass gave, I didn't feel a thing. My mother was walking up the road when she heard the tinkling of glass. She's a nurse on her way home from work; the hospital was about a mile from our house.
I saw blood, she saw red, but that was anger in her eyes. She just knew I did it. She grew suspicious; my hand was hidden from view. As soon as she noticed she yanked my hand up high, firmly pressing on the flow and bitched the whole way to her car.
The neighbor boy whose glass got broke, well his mother works at the hospital too, she's the one who admitted me into the emergency room.
They had a nice chat. And I've got a memory etched into my wrist.
~d~
