Waiting in Christian Northeast Hospital¹s emergency room, I held the improvised bandage to my right eyebrow. I was sure that I was going to need stitches­again. Soccer will be the death of me yet. I never have much cared for hospitals and doctors. Don¹t get me wrong. I do appreciate that they are around; however, I would rather be almost anywhere else with anyone else. A mix of antiseptic, sweat, pain, and despair assaults the senses. Young children wailing, senior citizens slumping, men pacing, women thumbing through medical pamphlets and nurses calling out for patients are all too constant reminders of human frailty. I find myself zoning out, not from pain, but rather from a desire to escape this sense of no longer being in control.

I stared at the stark walls and recalled another time I had huddled in an emergency room. Memories like multicolored, quilt squares rushed before me. Random scenes surged through my consciousness: bits of color and snippets of sound and smell stitched themselves together while other images were tossed away, landing unused somewhere else.

The last vestiges of summer heat gripped the September afternoon. Debbie, four years older than I and already an expert horseman at eleven, decided to take me horseback riding while we were at our grandparents¹ farm near New London, Missouri, one weekend. She had participated in horse shows and barrel races. I had spent more time on merry-go-round horses than real ones. I marveled at Debbie¹s tomboy strength as she hefted the saddles in place and tightened the cinches, kneeing Tiny and Princess to make them release their expanded sides to ensure the saddles wouldn¹t slip.