Skinned Knees

It’s been six months. I can still see the scars on my knees. Well, maybe they’re not scars, just discolorations. Little pinkish patches. And I cherish them.

I see the spots when I look at my knees in the bath. Or putting on my pants. Or, well, at other times.

I skinned my knees when I was playing outside last summer. To tell the truth, it was at a water park. I was racing someone on the water slide. Yes, I’m 47 and I skinned my knees racing my 12-year-old daughter.

This is the actual slide. I pushed off hard with my feet and my knees missed landing on the foam mat. I lost the race.

But it didn’t really hurt that bad. I felt like a kid again, finishing the day playing at the water park with skinned knees. I suppose if I were still a kid, they would have healed up months ago. But I don’t mind. Every time I see the spots, I’m reminded of the day I had with the family. It was a good day, and I need to remember those peaceful times when I get stressed out with all life’s pressures.

I’m already thinking of going back to the water park again next summer. But I think I’ll see if I can hold on to the memories next time without the physical stigmata. As much as I’ve loved the reminder, I think my body is too old for a repeat.