Day 11, Sunday. Earliest memory

Day 11, Sunday.  Earliest memory

So today will be a poem about my earliest memory.  Be warned it will be graphic!

A small girl and her brother ages three and four,

Rough housing again it seems to be the norm,

Between these siblings who play all the while,

Not a care in the world running for miles,

Cops and Robbers a lot she has to be the good one,

Chasing him through the house he runs- she runs,

And she thinks he must spend the rest of his days in jail,

To atone for his mischief she will not permit him bail,

So he steals one of Mom’s apples out of the bowl,

She runs after him- he is a thief time to pay the toll,

He runs out the back storm door determined to be free,

She runs right after him for all the world to see,

Their parents are oblivious in their bedroom talking,

Of the fine line of justice these siblings are walking,

Then through the house her girl’s screams pierce the day,

Mom comes running out yelling for her children to obey,

She stops in her tracks at the sight that greets her,

Her baby girl is hurt there is blood everywhere,

She yells for her husband to come here quickly,

Time is of the essence the cut looks sickly,

The shattered glass from the door lay scattered on the floor,

The worried lines on her face as she reaches the door,

All she can see is her daughters crying face and the blood,

She starts to shake, crying out for her husband in a flood,

Her daughter’s arm is cut deep the blood pouring fast,

And finally her husband comes to the scene at long last,

He calls for the ambulance to come for his child,

There are none available now, not for a while,

He grabs up the sheets and ties her arm in a tourniquet,

Ushers her to the car he has to get her to the hospital quick,

He is beginning to fear for his little girl with the blood loss,

But he drives so fast he owns the car like a boss,

And then they are there, they made it to the hospital,

His face is concerned his baby girl seems so little,

The nurses see the need and rush her right in,

One hundred stitches she needs and so they begin,

The doctors and nurses are all very nice,

And at the end of the day as they roll the dice,

She is going to be fine but have a nice little scar,

Running from her wrist to her elbow just so far,

A traumatic experience is her earliest memory,

And the parts they all played all of her family,

And now that she is grown the scar always reminds her,

Of the earliest thing as a baby that she can remember.