Holding the thorn in my hand, I thought about Jim’s leg. It was a stress fracture of some kind – I didn’t remember the details – but Jim had been walking on what was for all intents a broken leg for at least three months. “I thought it was a muscle strain,” he’d said in the hospital.
Once I’d discovered and dislodged the thorn from my side my entire chest opened up. Breathing in my first full breath I imagined Jim’s relief after his surgery. Fixing something he didn’t know was broken. The removal of something painful he didn’t know existed.
The ceramic thorn had been painted and fired in a seventh grade kiln. “May 4, 1989” was carved in it above a girl’s initials. She had curly hair but, years later, no name. She was just initials.
“See! I told you it wasn’t me!” my wife screamed.
She had a point.
