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| We called these goose eggs, the doctor called them hematomas - tomato, tah-ma-tah |
My go-to outside activity was riding up and down the s-shaped road of the trailer park. We were too poor for every kid in the family to have their own bike. When my mother won a cheetah themed bike in a grocery store raffle I was the happiest I could ever remember being. I was so proud of having a new beautiful object of desire that other kids would covet. I washed and cleaned that bike any chance I got and rode it with wild abandon. It was a true and pure good thing in my life.
The problem was that I was not as skilled at riding as I imagined I was and I wrecked a lot trying to do tricks, jumps and stunts. I was riding one day and trying to get the attention of my friends to show them how cool I looked riding with no hands. While I was looking backwards with no hands my bike drifted into a truck's side mirror. That knocked me to the ground and out cold. My friends brought me around and I walked my bike home in a stupor. Inside I looked in the mirror we had by the door. My forehead was a swollen cartoon in the shape of half of an egg with blood matted in my hair and running down my clothes. I walked to my mom who was on the couch talking with some friends. I told her I had a bump on my head and she turned around and screamed. She took me to the hospital where I got a few stitches.
I never told her what I had been doing when I bashed my head. It seemed like the facts in the case might just cloud her judgment about who was at fault in this tragic accident.
