Scrape

Mom could fix it.
Wash the burning scour,
pink ovals of her nails,
hands pretty and so tender.
Then a Bandaid
softly and carefully laid.
Facecloth, warm and clean,
erasing the tearstains on my cheeks
followed by a kiss.

Smile refreshed
bounding out the door
to the walk where Daddy waits.
There's no sign of the scar
in the flower bed,
where the pedal gouged a canyon
and my elbow
deprived the grass
of some of its green.