Even tripping over, yes, the Stability Ball (?) last winter was no match for this mess.

Yes. Several days ago, also during deep spring cleaning [Note to Self: back off the internal condemnation about clutter, alrighty then?], I’d unearthed my beautiful diamond engagement ring from amongst the rubble of the past. Wearing it proudly, stubbornly, every day since, I’d only spent a fleeting moment considering the relative propriety of doing so, seeing as my ex-husband had been remarried for years. But, the ring was gold, after all; best to keep such valuables close to the vest.

However, on this morning, the God of the Universe rendered all human logic void against the crystal clarity of illumination. Upon impact with the floor, that diamond – prongs up on my ring finger – made puncturing contact with my face. Through the optic stars, and the stunning silence: blood. All over my hands. Blood, dripping all over the floor.

The sight in the bathroom mirror, in sharp contrast to the usual vanities, was ghastly. Mashing a crispy paper towel against my chin, I tore out the door, down Cherry, around the cemetery and, for the third time in five weeks, across to the ER.

They all know me, over there. Every head followed my moaning face as it floated past. Tick bites, two at once. Garden rake tines, to the ball of the foot. Hives, to the throat. All this, to the people who save the lives of the socially unimportant, the hapless, and the homeless, every day: a night at work. Their stride was set.

Those assigned to my case were born to gentility and compassion. The nurse, who held my hand. The young surgeon’s eyes, deep teal, his manner careful and patient centered. And, the supervising physician, a lord of insight and empathy.

Two hours later: two deft stitches, just under the chin. And, some serious, jaw bruising bone pain.

At least the tetanus shot from the rake attack was still fresh.

Arriving home at 4:36 am, I quietly slipped the diamond off my finger and placed it under the rest of the costume jewelry. Like the nurse said: the marriage hadn’t worked, either.

That photo?

Fortune cookie:

“There is nothing permanent except change.”

Superimposed over:

a pile of coins.

This, my friends, is a case of the artist literally falling for her art.
And, a scar under the chin to nurse for the next six months, just for humility.  Gold, silver, diamonds….earthly fortunes, only for time.

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© Ruth Ann Scanzillo   7/12/16    All rights those of the author, whose story it is, and whose name appears above this line. Trust me; you don’t want to steal pain.

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