I grew up under the belief that I was just as normal as the next person. I played like the other children; I brushed my teeth like I was supposed to; and I drank my milk, but only while wishing to swim in a sea of chocolate. Though my character followed the common American child mold, I couldn't help but think something was different.
That "something" was something my small, dark headed, capricious self would discover at an early age. This qualifying factor that would one day set me apart from almost all of humankind could clearly be spotted on my body. It was there for the world to see! Well, if they looked hard enough for it. Even as a child this "something" could be seen if you traveled from the crown of my head, down the ridges of my face, along the curves of my arms and legs, right down to my delicate, impish, right foot. Yes, I said my right foot and only my right foot. I can't count the number of times I sat on the floor with my leg contorted in such a way that I could bring the arch of my foot close to my eyesight. There, I could zone in on the mark that rested in place. It was in place on my foot like the North star in the heavens.
For years and years (probably more years than I could count), I would sit with my foot to my eyes in bewilderment while staring at the round, dark brown mole on my arch. Questions poured from my inquisitive childish mind, "Why is it there; did I step on something unmentionable; Does God know about this; Why isn't there one on my left foot; and am I the only one with the mark?"
Eventually, I accepted this strange spot and, by accept, I do not mean giving it a name or a place to leave its shoes over night. I gave up on the questions. It was a matter of fate. I, Mary Elizabeth Goff, was designed to have a useless, meaningless, earth-colored mark on the bottom on my foot.
No comments:
Post a Comment