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The End of My Thumb
Early
in September (at work) I broke the thumb on my left hand; the end bit, including
the nail.
Skipping the gory details - as soon as the steel door slammed I thought in this
order and quick succession: ...
My thumb is shut in there ... I cannot feel my thumb ... my thumb is gone.
Next
I rationalized. I can't feel my thumb, therefor, my thumb is o.k. after all.
Still, and with no out of the ordinary discomfort I removed the industrial glove
from my left hand whilst singing out loud the mantra 'its o.k. ... its o.k.
... its o.k.'.
I
did not want to see what I then saw, or feel what I then felt.
For at least a week I could not even bring myself to look at my injured soldier,
ashamed of its deformity and uselessness.
So
that is the retelling the tale of the end of my thumb - early in September 2,001.
The indescribable events of September 11th threw my own petty pain into perspective
and the sensation in my thumb became then a welcomed distraction from that gloves
off [sic] sight of Manhattan maimed.
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