Under the Surface

I sliced my finger, a careless slip,

the sting of iodine sharp as regret,

a reminder that life is a fragile trip,

each cut, each scar, a story we forget.

My mother’s hands gentle, like whispers in night,

would apply that dark liquid, a protective shield,

each drop a lesson, a beacon of light,

through clumsy scrapes, our wounds would yield.

Now a bottle sits, sentinel in the dark,

it holds all the stains, the lessons we bear,

reminders of healing, our lives leave a mark,

every drop a memory we ought to share.