During the summer of ’72 I was to personally experience a moment of emotional duality that merged happiness and horror within a thirty second timeframe. The hazy images in my mind of the accident are still with me after forty-one years. I hope they are still true. The brain has a way of blurring the grainy pictures of memory in order to soften moments of mind numbing intensity. The altered memories of four decades ago are still providing the grist of repeated nightmares. My brothers and I were in St. Louis for two weeks for a visit with my cousin. Our first weekend was upon us. Saturday morning was glaringly bright and humid with the mercury already at 94 at 11AM. It was the kind of Midwestern day that many refer to as one of the “Dog Days of August”. My Aunt had promised to take us swimming within a half hour. She had repeatedly told us not to run in the house as well. But, of course, we did not listen. Due to this all too familiar childhood affliction this would ultimately result in a cancellation of the pool trip. As rambunctious boys are wont to do, a game of tag broke out. My cousin was “IT” and I was running at full speed through the house with my Aunt’s voice screeching at us to take it outside before someone got hurt. I made a right out of the kitchen and made for the full glass storm door to the front porch. I was screaming in delight with the thrill of the chase and unaware of fate’s plans for me. This would be within five seconds of when the two emotions mentioned before would merge. My head is turned toward my cousin behind me. I have my left arm fully extended toward the storm door to push it open. I have done this many times in my Grandma’s home. Her screen doors’ latch was broken so you only had to push on the frame to open it. Sadly, this ingrained habit will prove my undoing. Five….Four…..Three….My hand meets the glass…Two…the glass spiderwebs and cracks…One…my hand begins to go through the door as the glass explodes. The smile on my face turns into a wordless scream of horror as my brain sends frantic signals for me to stop. It is too late. My hand completes its journey through the door and my left arm follows. The left arm is quickly penetrated by (what in my memories looks like) a three feet piece of glass shaped as a sickle moon. The jagged point enters my arm two inches below the elbow and rips deep into the muscle. The agony is unlike anything I have ever felt. It is of a deep red hue. The heat of the blood is molten but felt inside. My mind, however, has dissolved into blinding whiteness and the sound of a television after the Star Spangled Banner has played after midnight. It is snow and crackles. Fortunately, the bloody moon sickle breaks from the frame instead of bisecting my muscle. The damage is mitigated. I continue in my headlong flight that will end on the front lawn after turning a somersault in midair off the front porch. The thirty second snapshot is over. Upon being told of the flight I am able to laugh again but only for a moment. I desperately need to cry and feel a grown-ups arms around me. I am taken to the emergency room where I will receive six stitches in the muscle and six more to close the wound. I distinctly remember the smell and taste of a dumdum root beer flavored lollipop and the doctor telling me what a “brave little man” I am. I know this tragedy occurred. I have the scar and you are welcome to see it. I have all of these grainy memories and I believe they are real. These memories are real, aren’t they? Can I really remember the details of that day so vividly and with such clarity? Could this be the mind’s way of teaching an eight year old to deal with a truly traumatic event? Can anyone help me with this puzzle? I need the healing catharsis that an answer would afford me.