When I was little kid we lived in a farmhouse with a long, gravel driveway that was an open trip and fall invitation. After each of these inevitable incidents, I would sit on the ground and squeeze my busted, little knee cap with both hands until the jagged flap of skin became flooded with that purple-red “big deal” blood as it mixed in with the dust from the drive. The wound held together and pooled like a dirty ruby, hesitating before breaking into a large droplet that would streak its way down my leg. I still have scars on both knees from all the falls, and from this habit.

I don’t know why I needed that, but there is something in being able to see definitive proof that you’ve been hurt, when most of the time there is nothing to show, and it’s all within you.

Luciana, 38