My innocent right toe
My right toe bears the scars of a passionate encounter that happened many years ago. The passion was snuffed out soon after by circumstances, but the scar has stayed on till date. My long suffering right toe bears it with dignity and a look of hurt innocence.
There is something to be said for scars that outstay their period of welcome. It’s like the friend you took to warmly and then she turned around and kicked you in the shins when you least expected it. The aforementioned (I so love the word. Sounds deliciously pompous) right toe has taken upon the burden of the scar with tired grace. Yes, there is something like that. When grace is forced upon something and in the process gets frayed at the edges, that’s when it becomes tired.
And so the toe continued on. Ever so often it would give me a look of mild rebuke as if to say, you couldn’t have handled things better? You had to do this to me? It was almost like one of those mistakes you make in life that you just cannot forget. Not even when you’re sitting on the porch on a rainy day, sipping a hot cup of coffee, at peace with the world. It pops up just like the neighbourhood vagrant and leaves behind the unpleasant odour of a decision made with little thought and edged with rashness.
Sometimes when I’m lying on my back on the yoga mat my leg poised at a ninety degree angle, the toe in my line of vision I feel the burden of its innocence. How it had suffered pain and a lifetime of indignity because it was first in the line of fire.