Once I took the day’s newspaper
to my dad’s darkroom
pulled the string on the light
and arranged the comics page
on the gridded green surface
of the paper cutter
lined up the Mark Trail comic
with the edge of the cutter
grabbed the blade’s handle
and brought the cutter down
slicing my left thumb
from nail to knuckle down to the bone.

I don’t remember
the pain or the blood
or the trip to the ER
or the needle and stitches
but even after thirty-eight years
recalling and dwelling
on the memory makes me queasy.

My thumb is scarred and if it’s true
that one’s cells turn over
every seven years then Thumb VI
is scarred, but faithfully
grows a scarred nail
reminding me daily that
actions have repercussions
changes persist and
I am an abiding and identifiable
pattern painted in matter and memory
the sum and product
of all the cuts and scrapes
the tears and pain
but also the joy and hopes
the love and faith
of forty-seven years
equalling the man
known as David.

David M. Frye
April 17, 2009
In flight to Portland, Ore.