I don’t remember much about the wounding . . .
. . . other than being very young. When mother finally peeled the bandage off, she turned my wrist this way and that, clucking her tongue.
“Now that’s a proper scar,” she’d said, as if the twisted, red knot of flesh were a prize. A badge of honor—even though I was too slow to avoid being wounded.
As if I could find some pride in being weak.