Growing Pains

By Roevin-Marri-Geronimo

Art by Abby Reiten

As a child, about six or so, I would tell my cousin, who is three years my senior, that I would one day grow to be as old as her. I don’t know what it was, but as a kid, all I wanted to do was grow up. Early years wasted on wishing for womanhood. All I have left of my childhood, despite the blurred memories, are these scars. 

Left Knee: In the fourth grade, I was friends with this boy named Charlie. Charlie was tall for his age, even our teachers told him that, and he liked to play basketball. After school, I sat at the top of the slide. I remember the sky looked orange that day. And Charlie threw a football at me. It hit my stomach. Or my head. I don’t remember. I slid down, chasing after him, he was too fast, my legs were too short, I tripped, my body skidded across the blacktop, and when I stood, I noticed a tear in my leggings. A hole the size of a flattened penny. My exposed flesh matched the tear. My friends walked me to the office. My best friend told me, the boy who liked me had run to help, but fell on his face in the process. 

Left Elbow: I was ten and in the fifth grade. It was recess and I tried to grab onto the monkey bar with one hand. But my hands were small and clumsy, and the tips of my fingers grazed against the cool metal before I could hold it. My body hit the tanbark. Torso landed atop my angled arm. No matter how hard I tried to stretch my arm out—it remained stiff. There was a mass near my forearm and I remember screaming. EMTs took me away in a stretcher and my teacher told me I was so brave—a scar left from where the surgeons fished out my elbow. The scar is thick and gummy-worm-like. An inch away from the incision is what used to be a perfect circle, and every year looks less and less as such, was an opening where several pins sat for months, holding my elbow in place post-surgery. Five or six pins jammed into the gash. I got them removed after wearing a cast for two months. I was afraid. My mom recorded the whole thing. The nurse who removed my pins was kind. He said it wouldn’t hurt. I can’t remember if it did. My body moved with the force as he pulled each one out. He’d show them to me after. My dried blood on them. 

Right Heel: I was thirteen or twelve. My cheetah-print-twin size-mattress was a hand-me-down. A spring’s sharpened edge broke open the side of my mattress. I scraped my heel against it. Hot-cold pain. More blood than I expected. I told my mom. She asked me if I had done it to myself. I kept a bandage over it. Two inches and faded.