shot glass
"... brevity is the soul of wit ..."
- William Shakespeare

Heather Awad

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I'm up to my knees in memories.
Childhood is such a natural
place for the mind to go.
Days when hands are deep
in mud pies, callouses on our
palms from climbing tree bark.
But a glass spray bottle shatters
gashes my shin, blood rushes out.
Dad patches it up, like his days in
Korea as an army medic.
The wound heals but the scar
on my shin always reminds me
how mom was concerned about
dinner reservations while dad
pressed on to stop the bleeding.