When I was six
I burnt my calf (second degree)
on a four-wheeler motor. You
can’t see the scar now
it’s covered with an impulsive
American traditional frog tattoo.
Mom told me not to get back on the four-wheeler
“that motor’s hot, you’ll get hurt!”
I didn’t listen. Sometimes I do now.
I remember the frozen bag of peas
to this day. Slapped on the burn
searing like frozen fingers in hot shower water.
When I hurt my ankle
one of many times
I iced it with a blue gel ice pack
that we had for almost a decade.
Until it started leaking
and we put it out to pasture.
At football over the years
it was just ice from a machine
in a plastic bag
but that feels too pedestrian
too sanitized, to break out into everyday.
When I broke my toe
chasing a cat
back to the frozen veggies
an old, frostbitten bag of corn.
That I used on my toe, my back,
my ankle, and my sore fingers
the whole time we lived in that house.
I remember throwing that bag away
when we moved. Almost like mourning an old
livestock- past its prime for eating.
When my mom hurt her leg
just below the knee
she used a frozen bottle of liquor
the square bottle a perfect surface
to maximize the cooling.
We were taught to hold on to everything
repurpose and reuse
a depression era holdover
carried down through the generations.
My daughter has an Elsa gel ice pack.
[even though it was on clearance]
Will I fail to pass on the lesson?