Ball Mark
Ball Mark
By Ruth Hawley
I remember when Mom showed me her permanent one. It was made of spidery purple pentagons on her upper, inner thigh. I remember the shock of pain that seared my own skin, the first time that I got one, and how I grew to love the hurt. Wondering if this would be the one that stuck with me for good.
If nothing else, it would be the trophy I paraded around the swimming pool in my bikini. A ball mark was my way of showing the world that I was tough.
Now that I’ve hung up my cleats, I wonder what scabs I have to show that I am fabulous. Scabulous is a real word, you know. It’s the pride one has for a scar on her body.
So what do I have now? Without my ball mark?
Perhaps the pawprint from my puppy, turned green and yellow since the days she jumped on my legs in greeting.
“Olive, no! Bad!” I yelled as hard as I could at her so she could learn.
But part of me hopes she never does. There’s something about a too-well-trained dog that makes me sad. At least that’s what I tell my bruises on my soft inner thighs at night, before we go to bed.
Ruth Hawley has an MFA in Creative Writing at the University of Southern Maine. She is a former collegiate athlete, which informed this piece of flash non-fiction. For more, you can visit her website.
Caite McNeil‘s work can be seen at https://www.caitemcneil.com/
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