Mercurochrome

It was the first thing from the drugstore that touched my skin.

I think—

I don’t remember.

Before Desitin.

Before paregoric.

I fell from the bed and hit my head on the post.

They told me.

I could have been pushed.

I don’t remember.

Four stitches.

Magenta. Tinges of yellow. Clear.

Amber-colored jar. Scary label. Brushed on.

The antiseptic of my youth.

It was there the first time I fell from the trike.

When my brother pushed me into the Christmas tree.

When I slid into home in shorts.

When our first dog scratched me by accident.

Did we have a dog?

I don’t remember.

Mom Betty slathered it the way she used floor wax.

It sizzled on the skin.

Like a pink tattoo.

Pink. Pinky. Pink.

Mercurochrome. Kodachrome. Chrome bumpers.

I think I wrote that song.

No, high school.

Linda Ventriglia.

I don’t remember.

Then it became a villain.

They said the mercury hurt your kidneys.

Hard to breathe.

Memory.

He might be right.

Dialysis is a bitch.

It was the first thing from the drugstore that touched my skin.

I think—

I don’t remember.