 I can’t even see a mark where Jonathan stitched up my finger a couple of weeks ago. Since then I jabbed another uber-sharp Cutco knife into the meat of my thenar eminence (one of my favorite anatomical names. Sounds like an evil character from Star Wars…). Both wounds have miraculously disappeared.
When I was a kid, my parents told me that “Red Man” was responsible for healing anything wrong inside my body. They made it sound exciting, this superhero, the color of my coursing blood, who fought illness and wove wounded skin back together again. Healing has always felt magical to me. How does Red Man do it? Grief gets healed too. Here are my parents, happy and young, and I can look at them now with much less heart pain. I can focus more on the joy. Red Man again? You fear grief will never heal, but ruptures in your heart and soul get better, just like ruptures in the shell of your body. Just takes more time. My 60th year in 60,000 words Day 194: 169 words, TOTAL = 31,797; 28,203 remaining |
AuthorRobin Clifford Wood is a writer and writing teacher. She lives in central Maine with her husband and dogs, loves to be outdoors, and enjoys ever-expanding horizons through her grown children and their multi-species families. Archives
January 2021
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