Heroes and Scars

I learned about Heroes early in my life.  The very first ones are burned into my memory and my left hand.

I was around the age of three and we were gathered around a pile of burning leaves and limbs at my Big Mama and Big Daddy's house.

On this particular day, I guess I was running around not paying attention because my three year old self tripped and landed right in that fire. 

I remember two things from that day.

I felt something hard around my middle and my breath left me for a second.  My cousin Ricky had scooped me quickly up and ran with me draped over his arm across the yard and up the steps of the back porch.

My Big Mama plunged my arm into a plastic bucket full of ice water.

I do not remember pain.  I do not remember crying although I'm sure I did.  I do not remember my Mama or my Daddy on that day, although I know they were there.  But I do remember Ricky and Big Mama. 

As a child, I was very sensitive about the scar on my left hand.  It ended up being a blessing of sorts because it helped me to tell my right from my left.  The "bad" hand was the left one so the good one was always right.  Right? 

Even today, I will still look at them if I get confused about which is my right and which is my left.  And I pray I'll never need a Hero to tell me that...