Daddy liked to rev the engine to the beat of The House of the Rising Sun.
He screeched to a halt and my little head slammed into the dashboard so hard, it split my forehead right open. He didn’t take me to the emergency room; we went to a pharmacy where a nice man helped Daddy patch me up with some iodine and a Band-Aid. When it healed, it left a star. The good-girl star, because I didn’t tell Mama.
I have scars.
A smile-shaped crescent on the first joint of my left index finger. As a toddler in Atlanta I reached for a can of chow mein and its jagged edge sliced open the skin. The two stitches I got matched my two years. Now, when I want to remember something, I rub my left thumb over the ridge until it comes to me.
A creamy scar, the size and shape of a black-eyed pea, on the inside of my right ankle. My uncle in Savannah wanted to take me for a bike ride, so I gamely climbed onto the banana seat as he pumped the pedals. We lasted about a block on 45th Street before my foot caught in the rear spokes…