Bruises

I've always liked bruises, strange as that may sound. I like to show them off. Usually, they mean I did something really cool and adventurous. If they mean I did something stupid, then they're a good segue into what I try to turn into an interesting story to make people laugh, so they'll look over how idiotic I was. (Like the time I pulled the car door shut...with my hand on the top of the door. I closed it hard enough that it latched, with my fingers stuck out above the window. Ouch. Big bruise!) They turn pretty colors, too. Who knew skin could be purple and blue and green and yellow all at the same time? [Ha, they can be puce - kind of a purplish-yellow. Inside joke.]

I have one such story today. I locked my key in my car! Argh. And of course, I discovered this right as I was supposed to leave for a choir concert. ARGH! So, I called Joe to come help me. My windows we cracked, but the hanger I managed to unhook from the hook in the backseat was plastic, so it wasn't a whole lot of help. We could see the key lying on the driver's seat, so we went to the nearest tree and bush and broke off some branches. After much fumbling, we managed to drop the branches in the car. I tried sticking my hand through the windows, and though only my fingers really fit, I somehow squeezed my whole hand in to the wrist. Mark came by, we got some more branches, and dropped a few more in. The new branches were now getting caught on the dropped branches, and the inside of my car looked quite peculiar (oh, you know, I always collect random bougainvillaea sticks...). In despair of ever getting the key, Mark kind of whacked at it and lo! it caught on a thorn! With much excitement and high-pitched voices, they slowly drew it up and out the crack of the window. Late as we were, we rushed in our vehicles over to the choir concert (and I managed to change clothes at red lights so that I was in concert dress by the time I got there). When I finally parked, I realized that bruises were already forming on the backs of my hands and the top of my palms from forcing them through the window, so that should be an interesting look come morning.

Bruises also hurt when you poke them, but it's rarely a sharp pain, it's more of a dull reminder of a previous pain. It's a good kind of hurt, sometimes, and each time it hurts a little less. I am an odd duck who tends to poke her own bruises a lot. Maybe because it reminds me of how I got them (except for all those weird ones I get all over my legs - maybe I poke them to try and remember where on earth they might have come from). It's fun to think back on silly misadventures and laugh, or to remember what wild thing I did that resulted in the splotchy marks now adorning my skin. And I guess they start to look so silly that I poke them to see if they still hurt, or if they're all healed.

There's a vase of eight roses on my bookshelf, next to a half-polished Apache tear and a crumpled up napkin. These are a bruise I keep poking, bringing up the memories they represent, both joyful and sad. I look at them and remind myself of affection and lessons learned and of quiet friendship. I poke the bruise, the memory, and it stings, still fresh and sad, and I realize that it's not healed yet. But I still smile, cause here I've got this really cool bruise to admire, and it means I did something fun that I'll remember even more because of the mark. And someday it'll heal, and the mark will go away, and I won't poke it anymore, but I'll remember it and think back with a smile, even if right now it brings tears.


(p.s. I remember asking the people I lived with in Germany what the word for 'bruise' was, and they said there wasn't one...so you just call it a 'blue spot.' How silly!)


UPDATE: for those who want to see how my hands look (cause I like showing off bruises), here's a picture from this morning! (the next day)