Thorns

When I was in 6th grade, I had a reading part in a ceremony at school. I was so excited. To get on the stage, that was actually just the front yard of the school, was a bit difficult. All the kids had to stand together, very close to each other, on a ramp. The ramp was next to a big bush of roses. During the final rehearsal, someone made a wrong move next to me. I lost my already shaken balance and fell straight on the roses. Even though two teachers were present, the lesson was not learned. The same happened on the actual event. I didn’t get to read my part. As my dad helped me walk to the car, I heard some other girl reading it.

When we got home, Dad cleaned the wound and estimated the damage. I sat on my bed and cried. I still had one more part left to read, toward the end of the ceremony. “We can make it,” he said, “Do you want to go back?”. I didn’t want to. But whenever I notice the scar again, I regret not returning.