January 22, 2009

With Eyes Closed

Four years old, I think. In the small living room of our old house.

I was dancing to music, as little girls so often do. Spinning in circles, imagining myself to be the best dancer in the world. How typical, that I would close my eyes at exactly the wrong moment. That magazine table wasn't exactly in my way, but being so dizzy from twirling, I couldn't tell the difference.


I don't remember the pain, thankfully. But I remember the ride to the hospital, crying and holding a pack of ice next to my eye. That's the last memory I have of the experience – being so little at the time, it's probably a wonder I remember even this much from it. All that physically remains from that day is a tiny scar beside my right eye, nearly invisible. But I remember that old, brown magazine table with its sharp corners, the dancing and the spinning…

And maybe it's not surprising that I don't dance with my eyes closed anymore.