It was just a small scrape. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it. This business about going to the hospital, getting stitches, tetanus shot, and on and on, is just a nuisance, Overkill. I’m fine. I know what happened. I stuck a bandage on it. It’s just a scrape on my arm. It’s happened before, it’ll happen again.
Just before my shower, I took off my red sweatshirt and white tee shirt, well white as it could be, considering I wiped my hands on it after changing the oil in the mower.
I threw the tee on the floor, cranked up the hot water, then a little cold, just to make it bearable. Stepped in. Oops, forgot my towel. Stepped out, dripping, reached for my towel, stepped back in. Forgot my shampoo. Stepped out and in again, must be distracted by the scrape.
Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat. Lather, rinse, repeat. The instructions don’t tell you when to stop.
But I stopped.
Then the usual shower ritual, soap, rinse, soap somewhere else, rinse…
Finally done – the water started cooling – that’s my signal.
Out of the shower, toweling off, and I see, on my tee on the floor, red. Like blood red. Maybe I was wrong about the scrape, My mind, which I seldom acknowledge, says a wound.
I look closer, the red is in a straight line.
Just a thread from my sweatshirt.
Copyright © Mike Miller