My 11-year-old sister hit me in the face with a baseball bat
when I was four. It was an accident. I was standing near her

as she swung, and the blow brought me to my knees. I crawled
home from the field, my vision a slit, gasping and bawling

while older kids ran in the opposite direction. I got in trouble
because you were in the way, my sister later complained.

Mom told me as I grew older, I’m surprised it didn’t break
your cheekbone. You’ll probably always have that scar.

Sure enough, it’s still there in my senior photo. When did it fade?
First the scar, then the lesson. Preferable to act like it doesn’t hurt

when the wind has been walloped out of you, however it happens.
None of us deserve to be hurt. Not my sister when her husband

died unexpectedly. Not me when good health rebelled. But loss
brings us closer, whispers, let me stand with you in the same place.

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Yvonne Morris is the author of two chapbooks of poetry: Busy Being Eve (Bass Clef Books, 2022) and Mother was a Sweater Girl (The Heartland Review Press, 2016). Her work has appeared in MacQueen’s Quinterly, ONE ART, The Galway Review, The Main Street Rag, Penstricken, and elsewhere. She lives in Kentucky.