Stitches

Memory is a funny thing, isn't it? We like to think that our memory works like it does on TV where we watch a little movie that shows us exactly what happened. But more often than not, our memories are a jumbled mess of remembered pieces interspersed with misremembered images and stories we've heard other people tell.

I have a few such images from an incident that happened when I was two years old. I know most of the details because of my parents telling the story, but either through my own memory or my imagination that created memories after hearing the story so many times, I have a few scattered scenes in my head from that day.

I was outside with my dad and my older cousin, Matthew. I don't know where exactly, but I know it was near my grandparents' house and I can picture a field of green grass. Of course, given my size at the time, it could have simply been the backyard.

My dad was teaching Matthew to swing a golf club. I was helpfully picking up the golf balls after each was hit. As I bent down to pick up one ball that hadn't been hit very far, Matthew decided it needed to be hit again.

I don't remember the golf club hitting me. I don't remember the pain. I don't even remember crying. But I do have a clear image in my head of looking into a mirror and seeing my dad holding me in his arms in the bathroom of my grandparents' house, towel pressed to my forehead.

I don't remember the walk to the house or the drive to the hospital. I don't even remember the doctor stitching me up while my mom and the nurse apparently had to hold little two-year-old me down to keep me from squirming. Now, thirty years later, all I have of that memory is a scar just below my left eyebrow and an image in a mirror of me and my dad.