The mall was louder than usual, but then Saturdays always were. I parked farther out than I wanted. The closer spots were all taken, so I limped through the crowd, shifting the weight off my prosthetic.
It had started rubbing raw behind my knee again.
While I waited in line with the doll tucked under my arm, I found myself staring into a display of children’s backpacks, all bright zippers and cartoon animals. Something about the moment, the waiting and the ache in my stump, pulled my mind backward.
I limped through the crowd, shifting the weight off my prosthetic.
I was 25 when it happened. It had been my second deployment with the army. One moment, I was walking across a dirt road in a rural village with the team, and the next, there was fire and heat and the sound of metal tearing through the world.
They told me later that the medic nearly lost me in the dust and blood.
My recovery was slow and excruciating. I had to relearn how to stand, how to balance, and how not to hate my own body. There were days I wanted to throw the prosthetic out the window and disappear.
It had been my second deployment with the army.
There were days when I almost did.
But Jess was there when I came home. I remember the way her hands shook when she saw me.
