Day 252: Burn


Burns blaze, although they are not always about fire.

Burns come in many colors and with many consequences.

At their core, they hurt.

The esthetic repercussions of a burn tend to alter how we look at things, the burn being very subjective in its trajectory of destruction. In other words, a burn on the face might always leave deeper scars than a burn on the arm – maybe, who knows?

That is not to say that burns on the arm are any fun.

Yvonne was splattered with hot grease on her arm this weekend, leaving a trail of welts and one-ugly-ass-yellow-blister in the aftermath of the burns that covered her skin.

Immediately, the look of discomfort and pain took over her face as her arm started to process the trauma it had just endured.  I, of course,  went into panic mode as I tend to do when Yvonne is indisposed. It is a husband thing.

It was an accident and it will leave a scar as most burns do. Hopefully, it will heal well and the marks will be but simple reminders of yet another family function where food, laughter, merriment and spirits consumed our time (still I frown).

Burns can symbolize happy – eventually, signifying the trials and events that brought us to a particular moment in our lives. Some people wear a tattoo to document life, others wear a burn and in Yvonne’s case, she wears it well.

Sometimes, however, burns are emotional, deep-rooted in the pitch dark center of our psyche. It is a warm to the touch, palpable feeling of regret that rages inside like an out of control blaze. While it is not a real fire, it is nonetheless – hot.  I should have prevented her burn somehow. It should have been me. It wasn’t (ouch!).

Burns sting.

They paint the world with hues of pain and suffering and interminable angst. They sit tight on our skin, reminding us that we’ve bruised a sensitive layer of ourselves in the worst of permanent ways.

Burns heal.

In the aftermath of the pain, burns find cure through dressing and through our body’s ability to heal itself, rejecting the injury and leaving a scar in its place.

Still, I look at Yvonne’s arm and worry what will heal first – her pained trail of misery or my sting from seeing her in pain.

Two burns – one physical and one of the heart, healing together, scarring together and ultimately, I think as in everything else, Yvonne will beat me to the punch.  She will heal on the outside and I will still be a mess on the inside.

Burns hide (unless I write about them).


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