We're out of Band-Aids

Nearly every night before bed, for weeks now, Rosemary has asked:

"Are you hurt?"

A few times, I made the mistake of saying: "No, baby, I'm not hurt."

"Dad, you are hurt."

She takes my index finger in both hands, the way you pull a warm cup of tea towards your nose, and she inspects me closely.

Then she draws my finger to her lips with a kiss.

"Need band-aid?" she asks.

"Yes."

"BIG band-aid?"

"Yes."

"Stay here. Be right back."

Moments later, she returns and dresses my wounds. Which, of course, are very deep and require the biggest band-aids.

Some may think, "What a waste. Consider all the war-torn countries without medical supplies."

But we know (or are learning or will learn) that this line of thinking is not new. This path would have you leave the daughter in your arms, for an abstraction in your mind. There are many ways we persuade ourselves not to be present.

When they poured out all the perfume on his feet, the critics chided, "Think of the poor." But the recipient, the one who knew about the deep wounds, said:

"I will not always be with you."

When she's finished dressing my wounds, she tells me she is also hurt. It's her finger. That she will be right back. She needs the BIG band-aid like mine.

I wrap the band-aid many times around her thumb.

And we are healed.