That Scar on Your Eye

I was watching you as you slept tonight, wondering when you would wake up to cough or catch your breath. You have that raspy breathing that I am listening to right now in the monitor.

I am picturing you in your brand new fire engine pajamas that I ran out to get you tonight. You have grown so much in the last two months that none of your winter PJ’s fit and its cold in your room…too cold for summer pajamas, especially since you are sick. I went to the store just before dinner and got you new ones; fire engine, bulldogs, and a bear. You chose the fire engine to wear tonight. I should have guessed.

But, as I was stroking your head to lull you asleep I gazed at the scar on your forehead from the first Thanksgiving you spent with us. You slipped on a magazine in front of Grandpa Pickel’s TV and hit your head so hard it didn’t even bleed. It sure left a scar though. You threw up that night too; all over me.

And I looked at the scar from three weeks ago (in the same spot) from where you ran into Uncle Clark’s table…and the bump from today when someone at school pushed you down. You hit him first so that was totally fair.

And then I looked at the scar on the other eye, the side of your head that you have never fallen on in the two years you have been with us and I wonder how you got it.

And I will never know.

It was your first scar.

And I missed it.

And now I’m crying because I can’t be there to take that back, or to hold you, or to hear you call my name like you always do when you are hurt. That scar hurts me probably more than it ever hurt you.