Life's Little Lessons

It started to bleed. I immediately put my finger in my mouth. I could taste the salty sweet liquid as I tried to warm the wound with my spit. It discomforted me that I could feel my life pulsing through the smallest of appendages. I quickly ran over to the brown sink. The sink looked like it had seen a better time, like teethe that over the years of neglect start to yellow. The sink was sitting there like a catcher, mitt in hand, ready for me to deliver my red essence into it. I grabbed at some paper towels only to have them rip into pieces because the turning mechanism wouldn't rotate. I poured water onto the wound that was still throbbing. Strawberry swirls spun and danced around the tarnished bowl. Finally, I was able to grab a good chunk of the course paper and wrap my wounded finger in it. It took me two minutes to get the bleeding to stop. I politely asked the gentleman at the front desk of the YMCA if he could provide me a band aid. He delivered the flesh toned piece of tape, smiled, and continued on his journey of tackling a small pile of paperwork.

How had I come to this point? Easy... by sheer act of blindness. I was lazily getting ready for work at my local gym. I had just showered and like always stood underneath the hand dryers, not because I need to dry off that way but because it feels good when that warm air hits the top of your head and flows down to your toes. That's neither here nor there, just thought my readers should know. I had put on my black boxer briefs, jeans, and shirt. I needed my cologne so I reached into the smaller pocket of my bag and that's when it happened. My reflexes were immediate. The middle finger on my right hand was sliced down the middle. The cut ran through the finger and nail from the top to three fourths of the way down. I had cut open my finger and nail on a shaving razor and it hurt.

As the days passed I seemed to go through a lot of band aids. I sometimes had to go without band aids and that was terrible. Every time I reached into my pocket I would hit the severed nail and it would slowly peel back causing the most horrendous pain. I couldn't bowl one night because it was too uncomfortable. It was painful and because the injury was located on the most widely used finger—a constant reminder that it was there. That happened the same week as she came into and out of my life. I find it eerie how two such different encounters could parallel each other so well. A wound no matter how big or small is still a wound. I reached out for something blindly before I weighed the consequences. After the wound was made I felt rushed and panicked always trying to bandage something that was just too out of control. The injury stayed for awhile and would find ways to open itself again. Now... my finger is fine, it has a scar but it no longer feels the pain. I placed the razors in another pocket, they are sharp and cunning.