Wednesday, April 24, 2013

"That's A Lie, I Wasn't Born Ready... I Had To Be Induced"

Just as I can look at someone on the street and make up their life story, I wonder if coroners do the same: uncovering a pretend biography based on the autopsy.

At the end of my life, I wonder how much they could find based on the marks left on my body.

They'll find my bony hips and piano fingers. Two circular scars from chicken pox: 3 years old. Right ankle, a burn scar from a date gone bad: 18 years old. Weak right wrist after breaking it in dental school. Poor wrists overall: being a dental hygienist. Bone indents in the left shin: summers playing at Baba and Gido's. Flexible elbow: dislocating it twice under the age of 4... didn't mind it the second time cause it meant more animal crackers from the doctor. Loonie shape scars on both knees and my big toe at 8, from tripping over my pool toys in Mexico, and then Gido thinking listerine was a good substitute for polysporin.

A brain that couldn't get to sleep. An imagination that was saw monsters in the dark even as an adult. Three healed but still visible scars over the heart. Small piece missing and location unknown. Vocal cords scratched. Music still playing in my head between my ears. Small red dots on my fingers, needle poke injuries and blood sugar tests. I wasn't diabetic but I tried to be compassionate.

Somehow these experiences have left a roadmap on my body, each leaving memories. Some good, some bad, some bad at the time but good once its over with-- like most things usually. In the way that everything happens for a reason, even if the reason is just for the next thing to happen.

Song of the day: Paradise - Coldplay

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