What you have to break through to see

The blister was the size of a dime,

on the back of my heel,

and it had been there since lunch

but I only noticed in the bathroom stall

at 2 PM when I sat down

and took off my shoe.

The skin on top was pale,

almost transparent,

and underneath it

was this clear fluid,

this fluid that had gathered

under the surface,

that had built up

because something was rubbing

against something else

over and over

until the body said

no,

not anymore.

I lanced it with the edge of a paper clip

I found on the sink,

and watched the fluid

pool out onto my finger.

It was warm.

It smelled like skin and sweat.

The raw part underneath was pink,

almost red,

and it stung like hell

when the air hit it.

I was eight years old again,

getting my shoes tied wrong,

walking three miles to my friend's house

and not saying anything

because saying something

meant admitting

that I wasn't tough enough,

wasn't strong enough,

wasn't whatever I needed to be

to keep up.

Now I'm forty-two,

and a blister on my heel

from new work shoes

is enough to crack something open,

to let all that pour back in,

the memory of that walk,

the memory of not saying anything,

the memory of the blister

that taught me

the only way through pain

is through it.

I wrapped a bandage around my heel

and went back to work.

The shoes still hurt.

They'll hurt for days.