I was nine when it happened. It was a day like any summer’s day—outside playing with my doll of many years. I named her that because every Christmas Eve my parents bathed her and gently combed her ringlets then slipped on a new dress my mother sewed in secret. But this Christmas—back again in her original doll box—was also a set of white, petite doll skates.
But back to that summer’s day: Doll in hand, I headed to the two forts my brother’s had constructed opposite one another in the alleyway. It had never before been a danger zone so I stepped in the middle to—yet again—show off my doll’s skates. WHISH! A tin can flew by and a second followed quickly from the opposite fort. The first missed! The second—filled with small rocks and soil—hit square atop my head. I SCREAMED as the blood gushed out and threw my doll aside to save her.
Mother, her dishtowel in hand, came screaming toward me and tried to stop the spewing blood; to no avail. Dad and car were at work—Mother didn’t drive anyway—but she did add a large towel to my gusher and kept her hand hard atop my head as we walked the eight blocks to the doctor who immediately clamped the skin tightly together. The scar: well it’s still there.
On that day my brothers and parents and sizeable family gathered to both see my scar and help me heal from it. Ah, but the scars added since—those they cannot see—are mine alone to heal. It would sure be nice to have my doll of many years to lend a hand.