Souvenir

I was 11 years old and usin' an xacto knife. That's a razor blade affixed to the end of an aluminum stick. Cuttin' larger the rear wheel openings in a plastic model '55 Chevy. Gonna give this one big back tires.  

Sharp edge slips from toy into my wrist. I look at the pink line then the red floods it open. 'This might be bad', I think.

Squeezin' it together. As the squeezin' hand starts to fill up I make a decision. I need help.

My father is in the crapper. He and I have had our moments during my life. Most of them have been combat natured. I don't want to disturb him but I can't figure out how to hide this particular predicament.

Knock, knock (softly).
Dad? (softer).
WHAT!
I cut myself.
CAN'T IT WAIT!?
It's pretty bad.

2 heartbeats (mine).
Another and the door opens with authority. He sees the wound and changes into someone I have never known until now. Holds wrist under running cold tap water until rent is visible.

Tells me to continue process as he gets a roll of gauze bandage. This family don't go to a doctor. Towel dry. Bleedin' startin' again. Cold, slow this time. Wrapping the wrist round and round. Nice white bracelet with a crimson clasp, sorta.

'Lay down, cut up, don't move'. Simple instructions. I can follow them. They've come from a voice I never heard before (and never will again) , but no matter.

My father built things. Construction. Houses. They still stand, last I know. That day he helped me make a scar. 45 years later I still got it.


Thanks, Pops.