Judy Reeves wrote a wonderful book called A Writer's Book of Days, and at the bottom of each page, there's part of a list of prompts for every day of the year.
For March 16: Write about small injuries.
When I was a little girl, I got hurt sometimes. I fell and skinned my knee, touched something hot and singed my skin, cut something with a scissor and let my finger get in the path of the blades. Oh, the indignity of discovering that life can hurt. I started to wail at the injustice, and my father would gently say, "Come here." He looked at whatever wound I had suffered, tended to it in the appropriate way, and soothed me by saying, "By the time you get married, you won't even remember it."
He was right. All of those examples I listed were general incidents that might have happened, probably happened, but I don't remember specific small injuries. I remember a couple of terrible bicycle wipeouts that I wouldn't call "small," although neither involved anything as dramatic as a visit to the ER. I remember spraining my foot in a free fall from the monkey bars at Fort DeSoto Park when I was about eight; that injury did earn me a trip to the ER, as well as the use of crutches for awhile.
My father tended to endure big injuries as if they were small. One time he cut his hand clean to the bone and thought he was going to go back to work. My mother insisted he go to the hospital. He worked as a tool and die maker with big, dangerous machines that sadly didn't know the difference between steel and flesh. He also worked a lot with saws and drills on projects of his own at home. A cut on the hand was almost de rigeur for him.
The biggest injury of my life so far was the loss of my father. I know I talk about him a lot. His absence from my daily life is still glaring, still a loud clanging bell that never stops reminding me that he is gone. I suppose I thought that with the passing of time, I would miss him less, but the reality is, I miss him every single day. Still.
Copyright 2009 Melissa LaFavers