When I was a mere child—literally a lifetime ago—we often had a flocked tree gracing the living room at Christmas. I never knew where the tree actually came from; it would just magically appear along with several cans of flocking—that white fake snow stuff that would cover everything in sight if your aim was off. But in a perfect world, it would coat the branches with a damp mushiness that quickly dried and then fell on anything it touched. Or got close to touching.
In my kindergarten years I somehow learned to make silver candy canes by tightly twisting aluminum foil and then shaping one end to resemble the hook of the cane. Perhaps that was a classroom craft of some description . . . maybe that was where I made the few I managed to bring home. Whatever their origin, they were perfect for hanging on our beautifully flocked tree—the one covered in turquoise glass ornaments and large white bulbs that were lit whenever the curtains were open—curtains that normally provided privacy from the giant picture window that, in true 50s style, spanned the room from wall to wall. On this particular day, the sun was beginning to set, so the curtains were open and the tree lit—a masterpiece of Christmas décor about to be made even better by the addition of a few aluminum foil candy canes.
I placed the first two as far up the tree as my little arms would reach. But the third one . . . the third one needed to be so much higher, at least in my considered opinion. So, I got my small step stool from the bathroom—the one I used to reach the sink so I could brush my teeth every morning and night—and carried it over to the tree. I climbed up and then stretched as far as I possibly could, reaching for the highest branch, which remained ever so slightly beyond my grasp. So, I decided perhaps standing on my tippy-toes was the solution to my quest for those last few inches.
It was the tippy-toes that got me. Losing my balance, I fell backwards, taking the tree with me as I fought to remain upright. My mother heard the commotion and came running, only to find me crying from under the tree, covered in flocking and clutching my last aluminum foil candy cane. Fortunately, none of the ornaments were broken . . . since I basically cushioned the tree’s landing with my body. But one of those brightly glowing, hotly burning bulbs landed squarely at the base of my right thumb and stayed there until I was pulled from the wreckage.
It took a long time for that burn to heal, helped none whatsoever by the fact that I was a child and children tend to bother things that bother them. And even now, over 60 years later, I can still see the scar. If I lightly run my finger across it, there’s an odd kind of numbness where the burn damaged the nerves. And if the light hits it just right, its presence is obvious. At least to me. But I’m bettin’, if I showed anyone else my hand, they would never see what I know is there. Oh, they’ll see the misshapen joints that announce the beginnings of arthritis, and the blood vessels that stand out like road maps on the back of my hand (thanks, Dad . . .), but their only hope of seeing that scar is if I point it out to them, and perhaps even that won’t be enough.
Loss does the same thing to a person. When it’s fresh and raw anyone can see the wound and the pain it brings. But as the years pass, the scars caused by those wounds lessen. They may even fade to the point that no one would know of your grief if it wasn’t called to their attention. But no matter how long ago loss came . . . no matter how many years have offered the time and opportunity for healing . . . the scars will always be there. And you will always know. To quote Rose Kennedy . . .
“It has been said that time heals all wounds. I don’t agree. The wounds remain. Time—the mind, protecting its sanity—covers them with some scar tissue and the pain lessens, but it is never gone.”
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926. She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
