And sallow yellows and deep purples and sickly greens.
Meet Jennifer, The Great Human Pincushion.
A couple of badly administered self-inflicted shots and unfortunate attempt to draw blood, and my body has become a canvas of colors.
The bruises are in various stages of fading. They only hurt if I look at them, which is often, at least in the case of the one on my arm.
As a kid, I used to wear such bruises (and scrapes and scratches) with pride. It meant I climbed a tree, scaled a fence that had barbed wire on it, or got mauled by one of my ornery sheep.
I have never broken a bone. Again, my younger self would have loved that — a cast and everything! A tangible, albeit annoying, badge of honor to commemorate a feat of derring-do. (I must explain: As a child, I lived in an underground house on a farm. While not exactly a tomboy, I was equally active and clumsy.)
Now, I see bruises as evidence of my fragility, my mortality.
There are no more fences to climb, or tire swings to catapult from. Just needles, and this topographical map of my broken body.
Can’t rule out a cast, either. While my mettle might be a little less nowadays, I’m every bit as clumsy.
And aren’t you grateful I didn’t make this a wordless Wednesday!