My burnt arm

There's a scar on my arm…

I sat at the kitchen table. My seven-month-old sister sat on my lap. My mother was in her bedroom with the door closed.

As I poured hot coffee into a foam cup my sister swung her little arms and knocked over the coffee. I quickly lifted her high in the air so she wouldn’t get burnt. But when I brought her back down to my lap, I screamed! The skin on my arm had shriveled up.

I so scared my sister that she too screamed.

My mother came running into the kitchen.

"What happened?"

"I got burnt."

My mother grabbed my sister.

I run into my bedroom to grab a blanket to put on my arm.

My mother stopped me. "Don't put that on your arm. It'll stick."

My mother calmed me.

She took me into the bathroom. I sat on the toilet while she looked through the medicine cabinet.

"I need to go to the hospital," I said.

The burn was the size of a grapefruit.

"No, you don't," she replied, "I'll take care of it."

She found an anti-burn ointment; she carefully covered the burn with the ointment. Then she laid gauze on the burn and taped it down.

My mother looked after the burn like a doctor. We watched the burn heal itself.

A third-degree burn and she didn't take me to the hospital. I can only imagine that she feared questions might be raised.