in our teen years,

we snuck into our parents’ bathroom.

In the back corner,

across from the toilet,

was our mother’s medicinal cabinet.

We opened the floor length,

pale wood door

and saw the shelves overflowing

with various salves

and bottles

of strange smelling substances.

At the very bottom,

in the deepest corner:

a first aid kit.

Cautiously,

we unzipped the red, rectangular fabric

and confiscated the item

which we had been searching for.

We stuffed it under our shirt, and

replaced the kit

exactly as we had found it.

It was not far

(the walk back to our room)

yet the number of heartbeats between each step

seemed to increase

exponentially.

Once the door,

clicked shut —

and the lock in the middle of the round metal knob

turned

to the vertical position,

we placed what we had taken

onto the dresser top.

On the dark wooden surface,

cluttered with collected artifacts,

a space had been cleared

for this particular item:

an ace bandage.

We stared —

at the neatly rolled-up material

as the adrenaline in our bloodstream

began to stabilized once more.

Glancing back

- one more time -

at the lock on the door,

we removed the shirt

which had hidden the bandage from view

and stepped in front of the mirror.

Taking the loose end of the wrap, we placed it

in the space between the arm and the ribcage;

then stretched ——————— the material across

to the opposite side of our body.

The end pulled free, leaping

into the air before

— snapping —

back against bare skin.

We tried again,

this time making sure

to hold the end in place with one hand

until it was firmly secured under itself

as it continued

around and around

— and around

The pressure of the wrapping

pushed in on all sides

as we pinned the last length of bandage

into place.

The image that stared back was not _______;

it only constricted the pre-imposed binding

of the grim reality we were trying to evade.

The bandage, made for wrapping injured ankles,

had fared poorly in this new task

which we had naively asked of it.

The fabric gathered awkwardly,

accentuating

the fatty flesh underneath:

every bulge,

pucker,

and crease.

The nausea rising up into our throat

froze — hardening into a cold lump

which fell heavily

back — into the depths of our stomach

at the sound

of the knock

on the door.