I had the strangest experience yesterday. I was in a restaurant, one of those 'not fast food but not sit down and be waited on' types that are popular now (and wonderful, as far as I am concerned). As I headed to the drink machine to fill up my cup, I spied a group of retirement aged ladies talking quietly. They were happy and relaxed. But, that wasn't the most interesting thing about them. They were also all either knitting or cross-stitching. I had stumbled upon some needle-arts club of sorts out for their weekly Saturday conclave. I was drawn to them bodily, and I fairly floated over, unfilled cup in hand, and went from woman to woman looking over their shoulders examining and commenting on their work. I even asked the woman knitting if I could touch her project so my fingers could confirm the softness of the yarn that my eyes anticipated. They were pleasant--probably pleased that someone had taken an interest in their endeavors. Perhaps they were even surprised that someone my age cared (these skills are a dying breed among my peers I have noticed). But for me, something more profound had happened. Something unlooked for and something unexpected. A pin prick. Let me explain... Have you ever had surgery, or perhaps a deep and serious injury requiring stitches and much recovery? I have. Several times (some more invasive than others) I have been operated upon. The skin and tissues are severed, adjusted, and reconnected. On the surface there is blood and puckering, but with time and proper attention the redness subsides. The skin smoothes and the incision becomes almost unnoticeable. Perhaps just a slight paler hue--a slight sheen--to the scar tissue. That is all that separates that skin from the rest, at least to the casual observer. But...I can't feel the areas of skin around some of my worst scars. The tiny ones? Yes, the feeling grows back. But some, the really bad ones, the car accident or the major surgery, the feeling never quite comes back normally. And yet...if I prick that skin with a pin, I can certainly feel it! The nerves are there, just the surface was too badly damaged to recover.
Or perhaps...perhaps it is afraid to. Perhaps the skin that took the heaviest fire, was cut and pulled and sutured and puckered, the skin now pale and glossy, perhaps it now just wants to be left alone? Enough is enough. It is tired of feeling. It will do its job--cover your insides--but nothing more. But poke it with a pin, and for a moment, it is new skin again. All those old sensations come back, even if just for an instant... Do you understand? I left the ladies. I filled my cup. I talked and laughed and ate with my children. I did all the things a mother does and--don't misunderstand--I was genuinely happy doing them. We continued about our day. But there was a small spot somewhere in me. Some piece of my other self (before the soul surgery, before the scar tissue) that felt the pin prick. She would have been at that table with those ladies doing that kind of work. She would have been laughing and relaxed. Some other woman would have been eyeing her work, interested but detached, on her way to filling her cup. It doesn't exactly change anything for the moment. I am who I am now, and honestly I like this person much better in so many ways. And strangely, I wouldn't go back even if I could. The air is better here. More bracing. Yet, the echo of who I have been walks beside me like ghostly footprints--wet outlines on concrete about to evaporate in the noon day sun. And, sometimes, I see them before they are gone. Little breadcrumbs. Maybe one day I will follow them.
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Wendy Picard GorhamWendy lives and works in the midst of words everyday--English teacher by profession, and writer by passion! Archives
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