On that mild December afternoon, when I finally realized that I had been wearing my winter jacket around my house for most of the day, I felt silly. At first, I didn’t know why I had done it, and I wanted to believe that my oversight was just an insignificant lapse in judgment—something I could blame on sleep deprivation or absentmindedness. But then, I thought of the bandages on my shoes.
When I was a little girl, I would sometimes insist that my shoe needed a band-aid. I didn’t need the adhesive strips to patch worn-out spots in the leather or to cover unsightly scuff marks. On the surface, my patent-leather Mary Janes were clean and intact. Even so, one of my babysitters was often kind enough to respond to my requests by tenderly applying a bandage to the front of my shoe.
I think I chose my shoe instead of my elbow or my knee as the site…
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