Just jammed my new mechanical pencil into the palm of my hand.
I tell my daughter to fetch me a needle and my glasses — I want to take care of this before my palm festers, twinges… something.
She takes awhile to hunt for the sewing case, but I remember the perfect, perfect needle I found when I was cleaning out the junk drawer (the irony isn’t lost on me). Long and sleek, like the ones my mother used to hem skirts, I didn’t want to bury it away to never be seen again. I held the needle, new and steely-hard, amazed something that could so easily pierce flesh had the power to mend what was damaged. Then I turned to the calendar in our kitchen wall, and pinned it to the top corner of the Month of January, just like my mother used to.
Its so strange how the habits of our parents come visit us out of the blue.
For the graphite stuck in my palm, I remembered my Dad removing jagged glass, cactus needles, and wood splinters, all while I was growing up.
He never, ever hesitated — even though he called himself the business man on the planet, him and his world of “problems! problems!” that he was called to rectify — he always had time for his little girl and her little injuries. Always.
When Ronnie had something stuck in her foot, he’d drop everything.. everything.. and keep me near him until he gathered the necessary supplies to do his little surgery.
Gently angle the needle against the skin, gently peel, peel every layer of dermis until reaching the culprit, avenge the injury with antibiotic cream and a bandaid.
Do you remember, Dad?