Dear Pippa,Some day when you've grown you'll notice my hands, worn, gnarled, freckled and scarred. So unlike your now perfect porcelain hands. I'll be forgetful and won't remember every nick and scratch and I'll make up some grand story of how they came to be.
Like the translucent inch-long line between my thumb and forefinger on my left hand. I got that when I was a young girl. Your grandma let me wrap presents for Christmas. In my excitement I left the scissors under the wrapping paper on her bed. When I slide my hand under the paper to find the scissors, the sharp edge sliced through my skin. I watched the blood creep to the top layers of skin and nearly fainted. The sight of blood has that much power over me.
There's a divot on my middle finger's knuckle from a ring I wore and one on the pointer finger next to it from a pocket knife. I was not skilled at whittling. On my wrist is a burn from a delectable pan of carmel chocolate chip cookies. But my most beloved scar is the dot above my vein where the hooked me up to drugs to prepare for your arrival. Look for it on the back of my right hand. When my mind is addled with age you can rub that spot to remind me.
Love,
Mommy
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1 comment:
Sweeter than sweet!
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