SCARS IN MY HAND

One of my fondest early memories from Jamaica was riding into town, with my uncle Alan on the crossbar of his bicycle. I found it to be all at once mesmerizing and hypnotizing. It was exciting because it appeared that the road was rushing up and continuously disappearing under us.

I remember, being a bit of a daredevil.

As usual, going to the shop was my opportunity to be a big girl. Only I was not so lucky on one of my runs to the shop.

One dry sunny day with a cool dusty breeze, I ran uphill to the roadside. Barely, looking from side to side, I dashed across the dirt road with the stubby gravel and dirt under my bare-feet. Soon I was sprawled in the middle of the road, with cuts and bruises. Embarrassed, I quickly brushed myself off and continued on my way to make my purchases, and return to deliver my goods to my folk. I might have been between five and six years old. To this day I wear the scars in the palm of my left hand. A one inch gash across my palm and a quarter inch bulls eye just before my fore-finger. The one inch gash is less visible these days.

Back in the country woods of Portland Jamaica, life seemed effortless. I learned to roll with exciting storms and endless summers. There was no television. So, I enjoyed playing with my little chicks.