Have you ever broken a bone?
No, I’ve never broken a bone — touch wood, press garlic, throw salt, or whatever the superstition demands! But oh, the tales my scars tell!
“You don’t need to fall hard to leave a mark; sometimes a mango tree and bad aim are enough,” I say as my kids giggle. That tiny scar on my knee? It’s from the legendary bicycle race against a buffalo cart — I lost, obviously, but gained a forever tale.
Each injury from my childhood feels like a badge of honor now. “Scars are just nature’s tattoos with better stories,” I whisper dramatically, and my kids widen their eyes in awe. The irony? They won’t let me walk fast now without shouting, “Slow down, mummy! Remember the mango tree incident?”
When we visit my hometown, I turn into a time traveler. “See that corner? That’s where I skidded trying to win the race on a rainy day, in slippers.” My daughter gasps, “Wow, it’s like a movie!” I nod with flair, “Life was my movie, darling.”
One doesn’t need broken bones to feel heroic. A scraped elbow, a bruised ego, or a toppled birthday cake can be the foundation of legendary childhoods.
As my son once said after I showed my scar, “Mummy, you’re like a superhero who didn’t wear a cape but wore a lot of band-aids.”
Thought to ponder: It’s not the breaks that build us, but the bends — the tiny twists in time that leave a story stitched into our skin and soul.
Sharon's Read And Reflect 
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