This is written in honor of something that happened seven years ago today.

I avoided it for seven years. How can I go back? Yet I went to that parking lot. Back to that asphalt just to cut a little bit of walking time. Wasn't that what Margaret told me so many years ago? I went along in my infinite freshman wisdom, not knowing the horrors that would face me for listening to her. Today I stepped carefully, even if I knew I was safe this time.

What's scary about a parking lot? Cars, pavement, those little lines that tell you where to park... there shouldn't be anything to worry about, alone or with an older sister. Yet this parking lot back in January 2001 brought me down, the sister suspiciously at my side.

Margaret and I walked our normal route, a comfortable one. Comfortable was not how the winter liked it though. The wind whipped, hooted, and howled about us, but the snow on the ground was undaunted. It remained unmoved, icing everything below our feet.

As always, we waited in that at the Harlem station, and another companion, Kristina, met up with us. We huddled under the mostly broken heat lamps with the other commuters. When it finally came, the train provided a reprieve and a false sense of security. The time came for the walk from the Halsted station to school--the normal march made into a death trap.

Margaret remembers the day. She remembers that we never cut through that parking lot since that winter day. The trek was brutal, but not as brutal as what would take place.

Almost reaching Harrison Street, one last obstacle met us. The cars in the lot were all very far away from this spot, avoiding it: we should have paid attention. Black ice swept me straight down. Margaret and Kristina fell, too, on top of me. I broke their falls (Kristina thanked me later--less can be said for my sister). They helped me to my feet after helping themselves up first.

I hobbled to school, and Margaret and Kristina dropped me off at the deans' office. They, of course, shoved me off on the hospital.

I knew what the doctor was going to tell me. All I could think was, not again! I did this over a decade ago! To the same arm! Sure enough, I had a fracture along my left elbow--again.

Ironically but not surprisingly, Margaret was there over a decade ago. The old woodchip-covered playground on Desplaines and Harrison Street was not to be underestimated. Under the watch of our parents, Margaret and I created a King-of-the-Hill, shoving each other atop playground equipment. No one was supposed to fall.

Of course, someone did fall, and it wasn't Margaret. I lost by going off one edge of our dueling platform onto my arm, and the loss was further cemented by a broken arm at the tender age of three. Mom and Dad ran over. I looked up pitifully and pointed the figurative finger, "Margaret pushed me."

You expect an older sister to beat up on her baby brother, but this bad? She tells me the first time was my fault. I played; I lost. The arm was simply a play-action injury. The second time, in that parking lot, she had nothing to do with it. It was the ice. She plays innocent.

I have two scars on my left arm now, both along the elbow. The scar from a decade later is much smaller than the older one. There's also a metal pin in there. Thank God medical technology isn't leaving such nasty marks anymore.

The first time, I spent a week in the hospital. I recall I received a few visits from my sister. The second time, not so much happened. Margaret just waited for me to get home. Never mind the fact that I was there overnight and was back at home and school within 48 hours.

In the parking lot I stood. There were a lot more cars here right now than there were in 2001, but the asphalt is only slightly changed. There's more lawn area carved out of the lot by the university that owns it. Things change. I recall the infamous woodchip-covered playground, scene of my first broken bone, is gone. It's been gone many years. Yet Margaret still beats up on me, though not on playgrounds or parking lots anymore.

I gazed way over to the fall's spot on the parking lot. I didn’t want to go over: besides, I had places to go. I was still cutting through the lot. I broke my arm on this damned asphalt, and I can't even get an apology from my sister.

Labels: Longer Stuff