The Scar of a Lifetime
The oozing, dark maroon blood gushed from the opening on my right leg. The blood streamed down each side on my leg, forming a puddle where I was sitting on the rocky asphalt street right outside my neighbor’s house with my damaged bike lying next to me.
“Clarissa!” my father aggressively placed his gallon of water on the driveway, running about 20 feet to pick up my indigo shoe and meeting me where I had landed.
“Are you okay?” he asked me while grabbing the cracked child-sized blue helmet from the road.
My mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. I was fixated on what seemed to be the never-ending stream of blood. The miniscule rocks from the street were grinded up inside of the open wound, the blood spilling over the presence of the different size rocks.
“Let’s go get you cleaned up,” Dad said as he noticed the tears falling from my cheeks.
Placing one arm underneath my legs, and the other arm supporting my back, he lifted me up from the cobblestone driveway, pressing the weight through his heels. Pulling me into his chest, I could hear and feel my father’s heartbeat. I was in pain but being in the comfort of my father’s arms minimized my pain. Closing my eyes, I leaned my head against my father’s olive and gray camouflage uniform shirt that laid on his chest. With each step that my father took heading into the direction of my blush pink bathroom, I heard his heartbeat whisper into the ear that was pressed against his chest. I could feel the blood leaving the surface of my leg, dripping.
What was a short walk from outside, into my bathroom, seemed like an eternity. All I could think about was my best friend, Rory. The image of Rory turning her head backwards to see me on the ground while propelling the pedals forwards riding into the distance continued to replay in my mind.
Setting me onto the marble counter where my leg extended over the bathroom sink, he turned the faucet on. Blood dripped from my knee onto my father’s left hand and ended up on the sleeve of his uniform.
“I am going to turn the sink on so that the wound can get cleaned out. I am then going to put Hydrogen-peroxide on the wound, pat it down and put a bandage with Neosporin on it. It’s something I learned in the military. You will be back in no time riding your bike with your friends!” Dad said with the softest voice.
“I don’t want to ride my bike with my friends again.” I cried as my lip quivered.
My dad lifted his head up from the focus that was cleaning out my wound and instantly redirected the focus with the confused look in his eyes.
“Why?”
“Because.”
“Answer the question.”
“I don’t want to fall again to be left in the dust.” More tears fell from the corners of my eyes.
My dad stopped from unpeeling the bandage. His blue eyes met my brown eyes and he pulled me into his chest with his arms wrapped around my ten-year-old body and said, “When you fall, you are never left in the dust. Falling is a sign that you are in the process of learning and growing. It hurts; there will be some bruises and scars but those only make you a stronger person. Everyone falls, and everyone fails at one point in their life. It’s what you do in response to the fall. Are you going to overcome it? Or will you allow it to hold the power of fear over your life? I know one thing that is for sure. Clarissa Rogers is an overcomer. She conquers every battle. She’s prepared. She may fear what will happen in the future, but she conquers in spite of the fear. That is what makes you, you..”
What my dad did not know was that my only friend left me, completely abandoned me for Michael and his crew, just what I feared would happen at the lunch table that one day. He did not know that I only had one friend either, a minor detail I left out.
He cleaned up my wound, and I walked to my room to journal. Whenever I miss my dad or something bad happens the first thing I do is write down my thoughts in my fuzzy blue covered diary that he had gotten me when he served overseas in Costa Rica.
The thing I liked about journaling was that it felt like I had more than one friend, and I liked writing about my days. I practice writing my day in detail so I can write to Dad about them when he’s at work. He always taught me the difference between good and great was that great perfects the small details.
I opened my diary to the third page, noticing a picture that was tucked into the binding of the book. It was my favorite picture of him and I that my mom took. We were watching the sunset on the beach as I was on his shoulders with our backs to the camera.
I wonder who put that picture in there.
We both loved watching the sunset. It was the most peaceful time of day, watching the many different colors blend perfectly together to make a greater picture. He got to see many beautiful sunsets across the world.
As I grabbed the picture with my fingers, I read the writing on the lightly colored teal page. It read, “My dad is my best friend because he is kind, he loves me, and he plays with me.”
Turning the crisp pages, I stopped on the page that read:
Dear Diary,
Today was the worst day, ever! Rory learned how to ride her bike and is now going to be riding around with the neighbors that make fun of me. I HAVE TO LEARN TO RIDE MY BIKE OR I WILL HAVE NO FRIENDS!!!!!!!
Love,
Clarissa
I remembered that moment vividly. Only one friend. The urgency. The fear. The rejection. I turned to the next page:
Next page:
Dear Diary,
I know that Daddy will teach me how to ride a big girl bike, he told me so! He even bought me a blue baby blue helmet at Target. He got me baby blue because we share that favorite color. Also, it is his favorite color. It will remind me of him when he leaves.
Love,
Clarissa
Next page:
Dear Diary,
Daddy and I practiced on the big girl bike today, he held the handlebars for me so I wouldn’t fall. I would get shaky at times, and he would grip the handlebars tighter. Then, I did not get scared because he was there if I fell.
Love,
Clarissa
Next page:
Dear Diary,
I am sorry I haven’t kept you updated. BUT, I learned how to ride my bike! Dad let go of the handlebars and I could do it ALL BY MYSELF! Mommy was cheering me on and Dad was clapping his hands. They even got me my favorite ice cream, Vanilla on a chocolate waffle cone with different colored sprinkles. Rory and I will be able to ride around the neighborhood together!!!!!
Love,
Clarissa
Next page.
It’s empty. All that is on the page is the darker blue lines for me to write. I gripped my ball point pen harder, took a deep breath, and pressed the pen to the paper. Here I go.
Dear Diary,
If I thought the day that Rory learned to ride her bike was the worst day, I WAS WRONG!!! TODAY IS THE WORST DAY. I fell off of my bike. In Front of Rory. Dad and Mom were watching me. Rory and I were supposed to be riding around the neighborhood and then I fell!!! I started bleeding on my leg and Rory didn’t even help me up! She left me! Not only was my knee bleeding but my heart was bleeding too because it was shattered that my last friend left me. Dad is calling me for dinner. I’m sad and have to put a brave face on. I’ll keep you updated on if Rory ever talks to me again and if my leg keeps on bleeding.
Love,
Clarissa
Closing my diary, I put it on the bookshelf next to my nightstand. It was close to my nightstand so that it could be closer to my bed when I would read and write before bed.
However, that is where it stayed for the next six years years. I put my diary in my bookshelf.
Until I was going through my books after desperately searching my room for memories of my dad.
A week after I learned how to ride my bike, my dad got deployed to the middle east serving in the Marine Corps. My mom never told us how long he was going to be gone for, primarily because she did not know. She kept a brave face. She did not tell us that he was missing in action. When we asked where he was, she just said that he had been busy with work.
He was supposed to be finishing up his eight year term requirement, having a 2 week intermission. He only had two years left before he would be on the reserve list and then he would be home with us, forever, never leaving us again. Shortly after being deployed, he was missing in action– and I have no idea where he is or what he is doing. Eight years later, and I have come to terms with the realization that I may never see him again.
I did not realize that falling off of my bike could be one of the last moments that we shared together. The wound that I would sustain that formed into a scar that I used to be self-conscious about because it was lighter than the rest of my body, raised higher than the surrounding skin forming what looks like the outline of the United States.
The doorbell rang as the sun was setting on a summer day. A cool sensation rushed over my body, giving me chills. I was overwhelmed with a feeling of hope that I would see his face again, with anticipation as I opened the door expecting to see my father standing on the porch. I could picture his cargo camouflage uniform and his heavy black boots on. I could almost hear him saying my name. I yearned to go back to the days where he would pick me up at school. I prayed that God would give me one more moment to ride my bike in front of him. I hoped for the time to write another letter to him.
These thoughts filled my head with each step that I took closer to opening the door. My heart began to race with each knock. Knock. Knock. Knock.
“Clarissa, will you please get the door? My hands are full of raw chicken.” My mom demanded while cooking dinner.
“Already on it, mom.” I said.
I gripped the door knob, turning it to open it. My eyes were met with similar blue eyes as my daddys’, but they were not his. I stood there, analyzing him. He was dressed in the same camouflage uniform and black boots that my dad wore. Extending his arms, he handed over a cardboard shipping box. Our hands met to pass off the heavy box. He did not say his name, who he was, and where he came from but I knew he was in the military. I thanked the man as I tightened my grip around the box while he walked off of the porch.
“Who was it?” My mom asked as she walked to the door.
“I have no idea but he was wearing a similar uniform as dad’s. He handed me this box.” I said.
The room went so silent that you could hear a pin drop. The breeze through the opened windows felt cooler. It seemed as if time had stopped as my mom and I stared at the box.
My mom, swinging the front door open, yelled out to the man as he was opening the door to his F-150 silver truck– Dad’s favorite. He paused from getting into his truck and went up to my mother.
Staring through the screen of the window, I continued to analyze him. He resembled my dad in a way. He had similar eyes, a chiseled jawline and brown short hair.
While the two were talking, I decided it was time to open the box and check it out. The first thing I pulled out was the picture of me on my bike; little did I know that would be one of the last memories that I would have of him. Then, I read the note which was my diary entry that I read to each of you earlier. Underneath the crumpled diary entry, there was a blue ribbon which still to this day is a mystery. The last thing that was in the box was one of his uniforms. As I unfolded it, I could smell his scent of old spice and another picture attached to it fell. I picked up the piece of picture that fell with the back facing upward. There was a note that my dad had written.
“Uniform that had a droplet of Clarissa’s blood on it from when she fell off of her bike–uniform hung in my locker to be reminded of my daughter.”
I then turned over the picture and noticed it was the same sunset picture that was tucked into my journal. The various hues of orange and pink filled the blue sky in the picture, seeming more vibrant than any orange or pink sunset that I had ever seen. I looked up outside of the window, Mom and the man were still talking. I just stared. Stared into the sunset allowing my mind to be filled with flashbacks of what I remember from my dad.
He had the bluest eyes that could comfort any person who was in pain. If he was here today, he would be able to see the pain that I am going through. When you looked into them, you felt the waves of the ocean rushing over your body–it was so easy to get lost in them. I pulled the picture close to my chest, holding on tight to it.
He gave the best bear hugs. He said all of the right things at the right moment. And he was always on time to pick me up. Once a daddy’s girl, always a daddy’s girl. He always told me how beautiful I was and how much he loves me.
Overwhelmed by my emotions, I walked up the stairs to my room headed straight to my diary. The thoughts continued rushing in my head like a hurricane flood during the hurricane season. Noisier, Noisier, Noisier.
I grabbed the journal from the bookshelf and my favorite ballpoint pen. The moment my hands felt the texture of the new reflective golden journal, peace rushed through my veins. It calmed my spirits.
Sitting on my bed, I reflected. Although I felt like I had a hole in my heart when he was overseas and I yearned to see my daddy, I now have a peace over me knowing that he kept the uniform that had my blood droplets on it.
He might not physically be there when I graduate high school in a couple of months, walk me down the aisle on my wedding day, or meet my future kids. But he will always be a part of me. Rory may have left me all alone on the day I fell off my bike, but my family is forever. The scar that I have on my knee from falling off of my bike is a constant reminder that I am an overcomer, and I will conquer anything that comes my way because of him.
While my scar on my leg is now fully healed, it shows where I have been and where I intend on going. I now have a different scar in my heart that is healing from the pain of losing my father.
I stared at the brand new journal, and opened to the first page. It’s empty. All that is on the page is the darker blue lines for me to write. I gripped my ball point pen harder, took a deep breath, and pressed the pen to the paper. The peace continued to hug me.
Dear Dad,
I’m thankful for all of the memories and will cherish them forever. Because of you, I will overcome. I will persevere. I refuse to give up But I will spend the rest of my life missing you. I love you.
With all of my love,
Clarissa
Arianna E. Allen 