Shard of Glass

The following is a fictionalized version of something that actually happened to me. The scar is almost gone, but the memory lingers.

The tree was tall and hanging upon it were baubles and balls, angels and tin soldiers, tinsel and lights. A little girl, no more than five or six approaches it.

Her curly hair bobs as she skips up toward the tree. She regards a turquoise ball, and it regards her back with its silvery surface.

Then it falls.

It flies apart into many small, sharp, glass pieces.

“Oh dear,” says the girl. “Oh dear.”

She stoops and begins to collect the pieces in her hand.

“Ouch!”

She drops her collection and looks at her palm. Sticking out from it is a turquoise and silver shard. It stands out like a nail in wood — not like most slivers, to the side.

She pulls it, and it breaks, leaving a part still embedded in her palm.

“Mommy! Mommy!” The child runs to the other room. “I have a sliver!”

Mother looks at the tiny palm and says, “Go sit down on the couch. I’ll get the needle and alcohol.”

The girls bursts into tears, but goes to the couch and sits anyway.

Mother kneels down by her daughter, takes the tiny palm into her larger one and dips the needle into the alcohol.

“Mommy, I hate needles.” The little girl cries.

“There, there. This will only take a moment, and everything will be well. OK?”

The little girl sniffles.

In a moment, the sliver is gone, and the child goes off to play.

The would leaves a scar.