The Brown Bottle

I scraped my knee on the bus step.

A small wound. Blood and dirt.

I thought of the brown bottle—

the one my mother kept. Glass smooth.

The applicator rod fit in her palm.

I remember the smell. Chemical.

Sharp. A warning, she would say.

This will hurt. You'll survive.

She held my leg steady.

Her hands were certain.

She dabbed the wound. The sting

came fast. I didn't cry.

That's what the smell means.

Not safety. Endurance.

The knowledge that pain

is part of being fixed.

The bottle's probably gone.

She would have thrown it out

years ago. But I still

see it. Amber glass.

The same color as the light

on the 47 bus. The same

quality of warning. The same

way of marking what's broken.

I applied it to my knee today.

The smell was exactly the same.

Thirty years and nothing

has changed but everything has.