I filled the sink with hot soapy water. Without paying attention, I threw in numerous dirty dishes that needed cleaning. I stared absently out the window, picked dishes out at random and scrubbed without looking. I was using my fingers as my eyes and landed on something I didn’t recognize. Immediately I was reminded that I had tossed in the santoku knife as my whole arm jerked back involuntarily and trickles of red swirled atop the soap suds.

The cut is small but in a most inconvenient place – the tip of my right index finger. It doesn’t want to close over and, I’ve come to recognize, the older I get, things that break on me do not heal with any kind of expediency. It throbs constantly and is tender when touched. Did I mention I am right-handed and work on a computer nearly all day long? Or that although I have a high tolerance for pain, I still like to whine about it? And that I turn almost anything into a metaphorically revealing rant about something curled up inside my backlog of emotional disturbances?

It is amazing to me how such a seemingly small wound could continue to constantly remind me of not only its existence but also my negligent role in the injury’s occurrence. Whenever I forget it is there, I invariably tap it too hard on the keyboard, whack it on an object where I’ve misjudged its proximity or grab a hold of something salty. I reopen the wound again and again without provocation or warning.

It’s been a while since the initial slicing, however, as much as I’ve tried, I cannot force the wound to heal by sheer will. I try to take care of the cut, protect it from infection and attempt to limit the usage of that particular finger.

But it is my index finger on my right hand! It’s my number one, lead-off hitter when anything remotely related to my sense of touch is concerned.

It simply takes the slightest amount of external pressure to fire up the pain signals.

And I have no way of knowing when the closure will be complete.

When the storms come, it is usually without recognizable warnings. The wind kicks up quick and the clouds burst malevolent buckets of rain. Thunder booms uncontrollably and lightning strikes everywhere more than once. Tepid air becomes heavy making breathing difficult. Without the necessary oxygen getting where it needs to, all sorts of misfires and brown-outs start to occur.

Riding the storm out in a padded shelter is not an option. The light still needs to be on in the lighthouse, the pantry needs to be stocked and the hatches won’t batten themselves. There’s isn’t an umbrella big enough to protect everyone and I can never find my raincoat in time.

So, I end up drenched, buckled-over and pissed off.

All before the actual rain begins to fall…