Learning To Love You More




Assignment #11
Photograph a scar and write about it.

New Jersey, USA



This scar is on my right knee. It may look like I got stitches, but I didn't. It was actually a pretty deep cut and I probably should have gotten stitches. Anyway, on to the story of how this happened:
I was six and still had training wheels. My twin sisters were babies and had to be pushed about in the world's longest stroller. We reached a point around the block from my house where Mom decided that she'd rather supervise my cycling and that is was Dad's turn to push to stroller. Dad and I, being the goof balls that we are, started racing down the sidewalk. He was in front, laughing, as I happily chased him down. It was when I attempted that sharp turn and Mom never thought to grab hold of the bike.
I don't remember hitting the ground. I don't remember the pain. I don't remember how me, Mom, Dad, the twins in the stroller, and the bike all made it back to the house. After the memory of Dad laughing and looking over his shoulder at me, I remembering being carried in his arms and being lowered into a bath of running water.
It is the only major memory I have ever blocked out.
After that day, I didn't get on a bike again until I was nineteen years old. I taught myself how to ride in the fire lane behind my college dorm room.