A Magical Gift

Today I received an unexpected gift.  My mother gave me a necklace.  It is two silver feather quill pens joined together in the shape of a heart on a long, thin black cord.  I loved it instantly.  It reminds me of how supportive my mother is of my writing and of how much she believes in me.  It also reminded me of an essay I wrote about 3 years ago that I'll share here: 

Magic

I have a Harry Potter scar.  Well, nothing as jazzy and obvious as his lightning bolt, but a scar nonetheless, right smack-dab in the middle of my forehead.        

            "Does my scar make me special like Harry's scar does?", I think to myself at the other end of a sleepless night.  No, not special.  Unfortunately, or fortunately, depending on how you look at it, unlike Harry's, my scar doesn't alert me to nearing evil with searing and blinding pain.  I hardly notice it's there when I look in the mirror.  But sometimes, when I'm deep in thought or worrying, my fingers slide across my forehead, and perceive the slightest crevice, marring my otherwise smooth forehead skin.  Underneath the surface of the skin I feel scar tissue leaving a raised bump beneath the scar which, thankfully, is visually imperceptible but feels yucky. 

            As my fingers trail the tiny line which has surreptitiously folded within my occasionally furrowed brow, the memory of its origin comes rushing back.

            I was 4 or 5 maybe, and we lived on the second floor of a yellow house on Willow Street in New Orleans.  The house faced an empty though grassy lot across the street.  Facing ten o'clock, you could see the lights of the K&B parking lot on the other side of the block through a great oak tree at night.

            I only know that it was day time and I was excitedly running from my mother's company in the kitchen through the dining room and into the living room.  I was abruptly thrown face forward from whatever I tripped on down into the exact right angle of the wooden coffee table.  I can still see the ornate burnished brass décor on the corners of that coffee table.

            I am certain, though I do not exactly remember, that at this time I shrieked in pain and shock, as the sickening sound of the 'thunk' echoed in my head.  I remember that I felt like I cracked my head open like a pumpkin. My forehead felt cool and open and then warm, very warm. Next, I seem to remember a towel and perhaps some ice? And my mother's urgency bordering on hysteria.  But for a moment, forget the blood and the 'thunk' and the screaming.  Because what I remember most was my mother's decided control over the situation.  Sometimes her control sounded a little like hysteria from a distance.  But most assuredly, I can tell you, my mother was always so great in situations like these.  It seemed so instinctual, whatever she did.  She said, "Okay, now it's alright.  Everything's going to be alright." But her voice took on this silken wrapped velvet quality that suddenly made me close my eyes and imagine I was floating on a cloud.  She would maintain her tone with confidence, so I never doubted that I was okay and that soon everything else would be okay too.

            The trip to the hospital was probably awful for my mother because her focus had to be somewhat on the driving even though I know she looked at me more than the road.  Her hand never left me, my head, the towel, as I struggled to see and understand what was happening to me through the blinding mix of tears and blood.  I'm sure my screams were so unnerving to my mother.  I remember her saying over and over, "Shhhhh, it's gonna be alright."  And though the pain was unbearable and my fear of the hospital was beginning to override the pain, I knew she was right not just because she was my mother and because mothers knew these things but because her calming, comforting voice convinced me of it.

            In the ER several nurses had to hold me down.  I felt scared almost as if I'd done something wrong. All of this because I ran and fell. And now my pumpkin head must be falling in chunks everywhere because everyone is so loud and telling me what to do and I didn't know where my mother was. Maybe she was there.  I guess I was in restraints at some point and finally a craftily conducted injection of a sedative kicked in.  Or did it?  It must have.  I can still see all of the eyes peering down at me, the injections coming so close to my eyes to dull the wound site, the cat gut pinching and pulling my skin to close the wound, and my funhouse reflection in the stainless steel brightness of the lamp leaving spots in my vision.  The result? Six neat little knotted stitches tickled and itched my small forehead like drunkenly strewn costume fake eyelashes.  And somehow, no doubt, my mother and grandmother, took them out ten days later.  I remember nothing more of the event.

            But sometimes, on nights like tonight, when all are tucked tight and the world is still and alone with only itself and I have been stroking my brow, I think of my mother.  I am much older now than she was then. I let my fingers caress the tiny indentation. I think of my 4-year-old and all of his bo-bos, bumps, and bruises and stitches yet to come. I feel him in my arms and I stroke and soothe him. My mother's words come, so sweetly, so reassuringly, and he and I both know that "everything is going to be alright." 

Does my scar make me special, magical? No. Not me. My scar reminds me of how special and magical a mother's love can be.