Scar

It was my seventh birthday and we were going to have a party. In the kitchen my mother feverishly cooked food and cookies I was partial to. I dropped in from time to time to see the progress. Beads of perspiration lined her face on that warm day, but she smiled every time I came in. She wanted it to be a special event for me.

As I came in the fourth time, I tried to take a look at the just-finished corn pudding and, in an awkward gesture, overturned a large jar of brown sugar. It fell with a loud crash near my feet, but I was unhurt. I yelped, more in chagrin than in pain, but my mother misunderstood the cry and turned sharply to help me and overturned a pot of hot oil. Her left arm was instantly covered with boiling oil.

​I rushed to get her some ice and, as blisters started appearing, some petroleum jelly. Her entire arm was soon red and splotchy. She was clearly in great pain, and I begged her to stop cooking and lie down. She insisted that she had to finish the cooking before the guests came and kept cooking. I could see from her face how hard it was for her.

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The party was a great success; my friends enjoyed themselves; I had a great time and felt proud of my mother’s achievement. However, mother had to go to the doctor the next day. I heard her telling my father, that the nurse reprimanded her for ignoring such a severe burn for several hours. There was an unsightly scar on her arm for several months.

Decades have passed since then. I have never been able to forget the accident or to forgive myself for inadvertently causing so much pain to my dear mother. I knew she had deferred going to a doctor because she wanted to make sure that my birthday party was impeccable.
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I spoke to her the year she died at 91 and told her of my tenacious, troubling souvenir. Characteristically, she said, “You didn’t do anything wrong. I was careless.” She added, “I was so glad your birthday party went well.”

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