Josephine asked if I’d rather have broken bones or a broken heart, I said neither, really now, next question please. If I could, I’d avoid any and all pain, I’m not a masochist.
A broken heart is not new to me, even before I understood hurt; my heart was already in pieces. Along with skinned knees and that one time a car ran over my foot, I've always known pain. That's the legacy of an alcoholic father and an absent mother; you grow up way too fast.
I was stealing flowers from my doctor's practice when a car ran over my foot. Every day on our way back home from school, kids ran into the yard and plucked roses from the rosebush and ran off. For months I watched them, thinking about how juvenile they were acting, why couldn't they just go in and ask? One particular day, for no apparent reason, on a whim, I decided I wanted a white rose. I plucked up the courage and ran into the yard, plucked a rose, as I was running out of the yard, I collided with a sedan in the driveway. Who has the time to look at where they are going when they are in the middle of a flower heist? And I suppose the driver was not expecting a little girl to run into his car.
I say I ran into the car but the truth is the car ran over my foot. I suppose I was fortunate because broken bones heal in children. The bone, like the heart, is not yet fully formed or brittle. I was afraid of the consequences, trembling, what were my parents going to say? I told everyone I was fine and would just walk it off, except I could not stand. So, into the waiting room I went, serendipitous, it was my family GP. I got crutches and a cast, for how long, I cannot remember.
My parents' reaction surprised me. They laughed and teased me for a bit, and that's where the story ended. No punishment for stealing, no scolding, all I got was light laughter and a pat on the back. My doctor said I had permission to pick flowers whenever I wanted, but warned me to be careful.
A few years down the line, I’d sit in the same room and be diagnosed with depression. The same doctor would lightly admonish me for being so sad, cheer up, she’d say. She'd later call my parents to inform them of the diagnosis. My father angry, warns me to never talk about what is happening at home with outsiders again, I listen. My mother would tell me to pray and give it to Jesus. None of us ever spoke about it again.
I love roses because they remind of the one time I made a mistake and there weren’t any real consequences, just laughter. What’s a few broken bones?
If I had to choose and that is a big if, I’d choose hobbling on crutches over my heart being broken. Broken bones heal, broken hearts, not so much.
A broken heart is not new to me, even before I understood hurt; my heart was already in pieces. Along with skinned knees and that one time a car ran over my foot, I've always known pain. That's the legacy of an alcoholic father and an absent mother; you grow up way too fast.
I was stealing flowers from my doctor's practice when a car ran over my foot. Every day on our way back home from school, kids ran into the yard and plucked roses from the rosebush and ran off. For months I watched them, thinking about how juvenile they were acting, why couldn't they just go in and ask? One particular day, for no apparent reason, on a whim, I decided I wanted a white rose. I plucked up the courage and ran into the yard, plucked a rose, as I was running out of the yard, I collided with a sedan in the driveway. Who has the time to look at where they are going when they are in the middle of a flower heist? And I suppose the driver was not expecting a little girl to run into his car.
I say I ran into the car but the truth is the car ran over my foot. I suppose I was fortunate because broken bones heal in children. The bone, like the heart, is not yet fully formed or brittle. I was afraid of the consequences, trembling, what were my parents going to say? I told everyone I was fine and would just walk it off, except I could not stand. So, into the waiting room I went, serendipitous, it was my family GP. I got crutches and a cast, for how long, I cannot remember.
My parents' reaction surprised me. They laughed and teased me for a bit, and that's where the story ended. No punishment for stealing, no scolding, all I got was light laughter and a pat on the back. My doctor said I had permission to pick flowers whenever I wanted, but warned me to be careful.
A few years down the line, I’d sit in the same room and be diagnosed with depression. The same doctor would lightly admonish me for being so sad, cheer up, she’d say. She'd later call my parents to inform them of the diagnosis. My father angry, warns me to never talk about what is happening at home with outsiders again, I listen. My mother would tell me to pray and give it to Jesus. None of us ever spoke about it again.
I love roses because they remind of the one time I made a mistake and there weren’t any real consequences, just laughter. What’s a few broken bones?
If I had to choose and that is a big if, I’d choose hobbling on crutches over my heart being broken. Broken bones heal, broken hearts, not so much.
Thanks for sharing your thoughts. Much appreciated .
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