I caught on fire when I was three. This was half a century ago, yet still you will see the handiwork of this fire when I remove my shirt.
Outside, in the gardens, the trees were ripe with lemons. The beach was cool with water.
Recovery took a season — I simplify.
Next I returned to the world, a square of low wooden benches had been set out for the children. This was behind the Mimosa school, in the thin woods. A kookaburra was singing.
I broke my first limb at a glacier – I was skating. Later came the wrist, the scapula, the forearm, the scaphoid and then the wrist again.
I cannot help but think that every injury and slight and pain, is what gives us value, that life well lived is an accumulation of such.