Before seat belts

 

If the sedan’s dashboard had been

a marshmallow, my toddler body would

have sunk into its squishy softness.

 

The traffic light on the pole switched

to red: Grandpa slammed on the brakes,

pushed in the clutch.

 

I flew into the dash, and my tiny,

pale forehead split: Blood and

tears flowed down my face.

 

At three months shy of my third

birthday, I, with undiagnosed myopia,

was blessed—no glasses to break.

 

Family members at our destination

persevered, but bandages didn’t stick;

the blood, unwilling to coagulate.

 

Visions of the emergency room still haunt:

the bright, round ceiling light; my

arms outstretched, restrained.

 

The scar, a cross, dominated my

forehead like a boy wizard’s

lightning bolt—before he even existed.

poem by,

Janine P. Dubik

© 2022

jpdubik@yahoo.com

photo in the public domain