One warm spring day, when I was five, I had an accident. I observed that my mom had become engrossed in mowing the yard, and figured she would probably not notice my being on top of the cab of the black Ford pickup. After all, Edna Mae and Luke had played on that cab just the day before. However, they wouldn't let me climb up with them, so here was my opportunity to "see the world." As I looked around from my high vantage point, I scooted a little toward the edge to get a better view of my mom at work, and fell off.
I showed my mom my limp blue hand dangling from my wrist. She screamed. I did not know why. It didn't hurt; it just looked odd. Indeed, I didn't know it was supposed to hurt.
On the way to the doctor's office, my mom stared at my hand. She shook her head in disbelief. "My, for a six- year-old, you sure a brave little boy; why, you're not even crying, or nothing."
My gaze skimmed her face, and I wanted to explain that it didn't hurt, but couldn't make the words come; I could only grunt.
Dr. Johnson diagnosed a broken wrist, and wrapped a warm gooey cloth around my arm from my shoulder down to my fingers. I was forced to wear the cast for several weeks for reasons I could not understand.
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