Presence

When I was a boy, I was wounded. My wound stayed with me for a season or two, but as I grew older, I noticed it less and less. It is funny what a person is capable of convincing themselves. I even began to pretend I had never been wounded at all.

And then last night, in the bottom of the eighth, my wound was ripped open again, the pain as fresh and raw as the first time. Actually, this time, the pain was worse.

I fear my wound will never fully heal.