Self Inflicted Wounds

by Cynthia Cheyney

One afternoon, I was chopping scallions, particularly pleased with my culinary skills and priding myself in my ability to maintain a household, a career, this lifestyle.

Slicing, dicing and self-admiring, I reached for the pepper and remembered the time you had a sneezing fit in that hillbilly bar and we laughed until we pissed ourselves and got tossed out on our asses.

Well, it's those little triggers that send me into a tailspin, revisiting the past, taking to my bed with a bottle of Valium, scaring those who love me, refusing to cook for weeks.

And when I brave my way back to the kitchen, back to the heart of the house, I'll have a newfound humility and I'll be gently reminded to stop patting myself on the back. Especially, when I have a knife in my hand.