Stigmata
IV. Stigmata –
Every night it was there – the hole
in my hand – just the right hand,
not the left. It was a neat hole, and
quite large, about the diameter of
a quarter, an enormous hole clean
through my tiny hand. Had I held
my hand aloft, I could have looked
at the world through the hole in my
hand. But of course I didn’t.
Instinctively I knew, as any child
would, to keep my secret hidden.
I clasped my right hand in my left
to conceal the hole, or put my hands
behind my back or in my pockets.
What would my parents think if they
saw? What would anyone think? I
didn’t know why the hole was there. It
was just there. It had always been there.
It didn’t hurt or feel uncomfortable, but
it made me self-conscious and ashamed.