Glass is Sharp

January 13, 2010
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Thinking back on the days of my childhood, I realize that I’ve had some ideas that were less than brilliant. But when it comes own to it, am I really to blame? Nevertheless, in reminiscing about my childish idiocy, I remember one specific occasion in which I was the victim of my own ignorance.

One summer day, I found myself washing the dishes; that was probably a suggestion of my mothers, and probably also because of the lackluster selection of cartoons on that morning. So there I was, washing the dishes, wanting to please my mother when she returned from work that day. I can imagine the fresh scent of dish soap, the clanking of dishes, sloshing of the water, and my hands turning to prunes. There I was, standing at the sink scrubbing the dinnerware, thinking to myself absentmindedly about any object of randomness that crossed my mind.

The next subject for washing was a small drinking glass. Not having a firm hold on the glass, it dropped to the tile floor, leaving most of the top broken off. Not having the sense to throw it all away, I was under the false impression that “we could still use it.” So, I, in my imprudence, decided to wash what was left of the now sharp-edged drinking glass. Scrubbing it, and, of course, not remembering to be cautious of the treacherous, keen edges.

Feeling no pain, I simply remember pulling my hand out of the water with the glass, and seeing red liquid start pouring from a slit in my thumb. Panic took me.

“Call Mom!” I cried to my sister in terror.

Then she came, and seeming not too terribly quickly to me, to assess the situation. She advised me to put some tissues on it to stop the bleeding, and called our mother for assistance. Then, she returned from her day of work, scheduled an appointment, and we headed to the doctor.

I feared my fate as we followed the nurse to the sterile, chilly room. Would I need stitches? Was it going to hurt? Upon recounting the story to the doctor, and many others after that, I realized the foolishness of my decision to wash that stupid glass. What reason could have compelled me to wash a broken glass? Certainly not a good one.

My memories from the mending process were not too traumatizing. The doctor decided that the wound was not in need of stitches, and of that I was relieved, even though it would have been “cool.” The cut could be glued back together, and would heal fine. Tweezers pinched my skin, pulling. Reconstructing and mending the jacket of my left phalange. After the painful reconstruction, I had to wear a thumb splint, which was often grudgingly done.
So in the end, I learned an insignificant, yet, important lesson. Glass is sharp. Especially broken glass. And I will always have a little pink scar on my left thumb to remind me of that. But again, in contemplating the naiveté of my childhood, I realize that some of my reasoning wasn’t the best. But it’s in the mistakes that we discover the truth that should have replaced our then clouded rationale. It’s how we learn.





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