Getting Punched in the Stomach

After a long day in second grade, I slumped into a worn vinyl seat on the school bus and leaned my forehead against the window. I couldn't wait to get home to my dog, some cartoons, and a juicebox. The bus rolled along past farms and fields as I anxiously awaited a glimpse of the pine trees that lined my neighborhood.

A few minutes into the ride, a boy seated across the aisle leaned over and tapped my shoulder. “Hey short girl, how old are you?”

“Seven,” I replied, a bit miffed that this boy from my class didn’t bother to use my name.

“Seven?” he growled back. “I’m eight. How come you’re smarter than me?”

“Huh?” I wasn't as bright as my thick glasses and shy demeanor led people to believe. “How should I know? Maybe you should read more.”

And with that, he held me by the shoulder and pulled back his fist. The next thing I knew, his knuckles met my stomach with full force.

I winced, anticipating another blow, but that solid punch was apparently all he needed to release his aggression. He was done with me. And I was left to nurse my pain with the lukewarm icepack from my lunchbox.

When the bus finally arrived at my stop, I ran all the way home, flung open the screen door, and made a beeline for my father. His smile faded at the sight of my tear-streaked face, and he bent down to catch me in his arms.

Buried Treasures

Deep in the recesses of a linen closet, I keep two incredibly embarrassing old journals. Amidst poems and doodles, these spiral-bound pages catalogue the not-so-thrilling sagas of my high school crushes. Par exemple: “He turned around in study hall and asked to borrow my graphing calculator. Yippee! He knows I exist!”

I’ve considered tossing my old journals into a bonfire on more than one occasion. But whenever I page through them, I come across sweet family memories, vignettes from my early walk with God, and anecdotes about the Latino from youth group who’s now my husband. Those bits of nostalgia are worth treasuring, so the journals remain.

But what if, each evening, I dug up my journals and pined away for that guy from tenth grade study hall?