When we were not yet 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 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