The Echo of a Scolding

The little girl, red-faced,

her juice box spilled on aisle three.

Her mother's voice, a blade

of sound, cut through the air,

"You should have known better,

look what you did, now."

And the heat came,

quick and sharp, up my neck,

across my cheeks, years later.

I felt the prickle, the old burn

of spilled milk on a cousin's dress,

the silk, so new and unforgiving,

my own small hand, so clumsy.

The words, worn smooth by time,

still fit, a perfect glove of dread.

I walked away, pushing the cart,

my own throat dry, a stone inside it.

It never really leaves, does it,

that first, sharp sting of wrong.