Hiding under my bottom lip, I’ve got a scar. This is the story of how I got it.
Memory is a bitch, but when the past leaves its traces behind, Memory is a bitch, but when the past leaves its traces behind, the memory becomes a story. I think I was five or six, in any case I was at the age when several baby teeth have fallen. There was one single adult tooth already grown, in the front of my mouth, on the lower jaw. I was a very active boy, and by active I mean crazy hyperactive. My mother blames it on my fluoride treatment. I don’t know what she blamed for my cross-dressing habit.
See, while she and my aunt were busy doing yoga in the living room, I had crept in my mother’s room, putting on her dresses and trying on her high heels. I was admiring myself in the vanity mirror, wearing mom’s little black dress (it was a maxi length gown for me), when a burst of vivid yellow caught my eye. The plot next to our house was full of blooming dandelions. Without anyone noticing (in a spur of the moment thing, that everyone involved came to regret), I sneaked out of the house. Still wearing the dress and the ill-fitting heels, I proceeded to climb onto the field next door, where I picked up a very large bouquet of dandelions. I intended to offer them to my mom, and I would have, if only the hem of the dress hadn’t caught on the heel and sent me crashing to the ground, head first. I hit my jaw on a rock, and the solitary tooth punctured my mouth from the inside all the way out, like a hole punch tool.
Some say my scar looks like the greek letter psi or a trident. I think it looks like an unfinished dandelion.
