I’ve been working on this memoir for a while now. Numerous topics have ran through my mind: anecdotes from my childhood, defining moments in my life, or just a recollection of my day. I weighed each topic in my mind. I could write about my childhood, if I remmebered it, and since this is supposed to be creative non-fiction, I’m assuming I cannot fabricate any details. I’d write about certain moments in my life, such as my father’s surgery and subsequent recovery last summer, but I may never get to finish it because it did take me twenty minutes to apply my mascara (yes I am wearing mascara on a Sunday morning) and I do not wish to ruin such beautiful workmanship. I’d write about a normal day, if not for the fact that it would put anyone who were to read it to sleep, and that’s never a good thing to do, especially in class.
So, now I am sitting here at my desk, in front of the computer, trying to throw words together to fill up five pages, and have them making sense as well (which is not an easy task, as many may already know) and my bandage comes off. This is the last time I will ever try to save a few dollars and buy the store brand. I go to the bathroom to find another bandaid to put on my left index finger. I’ve a cut there, fairly recent, thanks to a stubborn bagel and my clumsiness. Me + knives = not a good outcome. Also there is a scar from a long time ago, about fifteen or sixteen years ago which was also caused . . . by a knife. At the rate I’m going, I’ll probably lose this finger in a few years.
I can't find any bandaids so I decide to go without. I look at the other scar on the inside of my finger. There's just a faint line, it's almost invisible now. Scars are an interesting thing. They're not exactly aesthetically pleasing; after all, numerous creams, potions and lotions exist simply to reduce or eliminate the appearance of these "imperfections." People wnat to get rid any indication of their survival against danger, to diminish any reminders of a life-altering event taht they had lived through and survived and were made stronger because of, such as a car accident, a random attack, delivering a baby, surgery, etc. So this brings me to my own tiny little scar, and I realize what I want to write about.
Next thing i know, my mother was screaming at my father for leaving me unattended with a big knife, my brother was crying coz my mother had slapped him, and I was crying because . . . well i still didn't get to eat my pomegranate! Oh yeah, and I had totally missed the target and hit my finger instead. Three-year-olds don't have the best sense of hand-eye coordination. Actually, in my case, neither do nineteen-year-olds.
Instead of going crazy like most fathers would if they saw thier baby daughter hurt, my dad was calm. He told my mother to call his brother, the "doctor" over. Now, the reason i put "doctor" in quotations is because my uncle is not a real doctor. He's always called over for any family medical emergency, from my almost severed finger to my dad's triple bypass surgery fifteen years later. I believe he got this unofficial title because he helped my dad study to get into medical school in Pakistan. I should note, though, that my dad became a criminal lawyer instead.
NExt thing I knew, my finger was "magically" healed by some secret family recipe, that I have been sworn not to give away (Old Spice). Oops. There goes the secret (and that ever-elusive A I'm always hoping for). The next morning I got a new Barbie doll for being such a good girl (yes, I was spoiled) and i finally got to eat my pomengranates.