A Yearning for Bruises

For 3 years now, I have preserved my legs in pristine condition.

Cleaned, scrubbed, dried.

Not a single scratch, spot, or bruise.

A pair of legs so neat they resemble those of the table I write on, the one my mother scrubs and cleans to satisfy herself.

But I don't love them anymore.

Elegance is not a trait I'd like to be attributed to them.

In the days I used to paint my scrubbed whites brown, 

When I'd come home only to squeal as my father would press the soaked cotton that would ooze a liquid I was terrified of,

When a bruise was no more than a scratch and a scratch no more than a wrinkle,

When my legs were filthy and ugly,

When I loved my legs.

When I didn't treat them like glass pieces in a showcase.

When thinking twice before risking a limp was a thought that would never even enter my mind.

When that mind knew no uneasiness.

When I would wait an eternity for a ring of the bell, to run off onto my treasured cement floor.

The only pain my legs have known for a while is the pain that flows from my thoughts; the poison of reminiscence filling them in the absence of lactic acid.

Restlessness is something that is common nowadays.

Being shut in and getting ill has led to inhibition.

My legs itch and ache to feel the roughness of the rugged courts.

I'd forgotten the stinging, the stiffness, and the limping I used to return home with.

Today, that changed.

My legs don't look beautiful anymore.

I love them again.

A fall that scraped the skin off my knee,

A wound sticking out in all its glory.

I find myself going down the lane of the forgotten routine of self-treatment.

A pungent aroma fills the air, one that hasn't graced my nostrils in a long time.

I go into a stupor of recollections.

The stinging pain takes a few years off me.

I'm a little kid again.