I don’t remember much about the wounding . . .

Girl with a broken arm

. . . 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.


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