The sliver of glass in my right heel

I know you’re there.
I broke that jar almost a month ago in the dizzying whirl of excitement that accompanies the making of pickles. I picked the jar, your parent, up and said to myself, “I should be careful, this is my last jar and I don’t want to break it”. At that point, in what can only be called a fit of spite, the jar leaped from my hand and forcibly dashed itself on the kitchen floor. Speechless, I looked at the shatter of glass all over the kitchen floor. I looked at the batch of Bread & Butter pickles now destined for the garbage disposal because that was my last jar. I looked at my own bare feet, too, and silently cursed the jar. Stupid Jar!

I swept up the remains of your parent and dumped them without ceremony into the waste can. I fumed. Ruined pickles. Extra work. Stupid Jar.

Almost immdeiately, Jar tried to exact its revenge. Your sibling sliver impaled itself shallowly into the ball of my foot, but I was vigilant. I removed and disposed of her quickly. I reswept for other lurking assassins lying in wait for my tender feet. I contacted the ‘Clean-Up’ guy, Vacuum, to remove the rest of the debris.

But you… you were patient, crafty, even. Almost a month you hid silently. Watching, waiting for your chance. Then, on the first week of school, you STRUCK! I felt the pinch on the bottom of my heel. I looked, but didn’t see anything. I was already running behind (Ty had to catch the bus at 7, I had to leave by 7:10, Neil and the baby were due out shortly after that), so I didn’t take the precious time to inspect closely. A few days later I began to notice the teeny sting whenever I took a step in my harder soled shoes. I look, and there you are. Already imbedded deeply into the callous, encircled by a small reservoir of blood.

My valiant husband attempted removal via his exacto knife, but I was weak. He couldn’t bear the screams as he dug closer to you in the bottom of my foot. You’ve won this round Son of Jar, but do not rest easy in your hollow victory. There’s a syringe out there somewhere, full of novocain, with your name on it.


Why, oh why, can’t they come up with transparent aluminium?

Somehow Scotty’s ethics and the Prime Directive cheated us out of this.


Of course, then you’ll just have more time to think about alzheimer’s instead. :slight_smile: