Healing

I was learning to ride a bicycle.  We lived on a corner lot at the time, with a cobblestone driveway that arched around the back perimeter of the property.  Those of us who learned to ride our bicycles there would circle the house and yard, perfecting our new skill until the breeze against our skin caused such joy that we would open our mouths, smile and laugh aloud without regard.


I turned the corner from the driveway east onto the sidewalk that ran parallel to the street adjoining the north side of our house, feeling the thud-thud-thud of the sidewalk cracks under my soft wheels in time with my heartbeat.  Suddenly - and I can still picture this uneven crack between the cement squares - my wheels made a grinding sound instead of the rhythmic thudding, and I found myself on the ground, staring up at the clear blue Kansas sky through the still-naked branches of my favorite climbing tree.  Slowly I lifted my head to examine my scraped and bloodied knee and elbow.  I opened my mouth and began to wail, convinced I felt more pain in that moment than I ever would in my life.


My sister Ingrid, seven years my senior, jumped from the front porch where she was reading a book, and ran to kneel beside me.  Ascertaining that I was not critically injured, she offered what seemed to me esteemed medical attention: "Do you want some artificial perspiration?"


"Yes!" I cried.


"Do you know what that is?" her eyes twinkled and the corners of her mouth rose slightly.


"No!" I sobbed.


"Fake sweat."


Laughter broke through my sobs and soon I forgot the Worst Pain in the Universe.