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My memory of that day is darkness, a one-year-old at the doctor’s office. Was it because the lights were low, or because terror shrouded my eyes? The lightest part of the image, the visible part, is a doctor’s table that is plump and simple—chestnut brown leather, worn shiny in the middle. No other image intrudes; everything else is trapped within the darkness. I was not alone, I’m sure, but no one ever joins me in my memory. Who was holding my hand when the needle pierced the tender skin on my forehead, when the sutures pulled my cut closed? I can’t remember being on the table, the doctor, or the procedure. It’s as if I peered into the room but never entered. I rub my scar, hoping clear memories will pop up, like a genie from a lamp, but the entire image remains a burned snapshot. Yet, the memory of that darkness is still knife-edge sharp.

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