It happened during a moment of folly. The naivety of believing in one’s own invincibility that led to a sudden, rude awakening – a deep gash from which pain and blood flowed. Pride prevented any tears or cries to come forth; instead the teeth would grit and bear the anguish instead.

To treat such a wound was more painful than actually receiving it. The water and soap stung upon contact and remained for several seconds until finally subsisting. This ritual was repeated several times before a band-aid could be gently placed on the raw skin in order to provide a coating of protection while the natural healing regiment of the human anatomy would take its own course.

Sleep that night was very hard to come by for the body was put through several positions in order to take care not to put too much weight on the wound. Tossing and turning, each movement provided a brief pang of pain until finally there was compromise made to which sleep could finally be secured.

The next day finds the affected area still tender. Attention is turned to it yet again – soap, water, ointment, pain – before it’s bandaged in order to be ignored while life continues on. Wardrobe choices are based on hiding the evidence of the wreckage for fear of others inquiring into its origins. The faster this embarrassment heals, the better, and each day it does get better. Each morning reveals the red turning into beige while the wide wound recedes into a smaller and smaller area space.

Though a bit of relief is felt from this progress, there is also a bit of remorse. The wound that was tended and cared for so diligently will soon vanish, giving nothing else to look after once it’s gone. When it heals, where else will that loving maternal instinct be channeled?

But it must heal and vanish, in order to complete a healthy cycle necessary to life, leaving only a scar as a reminder of the stupidity and strength that came from it.