“Band-aids don’t fix bullet holes,” Mom used to say, pressing Johnson & Johnson adhesive strips onto my scraped knees. The memory floats, unbidden, as I stand in the fluorescent-lit drugstore aisle, staring at boxes of bandages.
“Sarah? Earth to Sarah!” Michael waves his hand in front of my face. My seven-year-old son, impatient as always. Just like his grandfather.
…grandfather. The word sticks in my throat like a sharp-edged pill. Dad. Three days since the call. Terminal. Six months, maybe less.
“Can we get the superhero ones?” Michael points at cartoon-decorated bandages. The same kind Dad bought when I was little, after Mom left. Always trying to make things better with colorful strips of artificial healing.
Thoughts spiral, twist. Mom’s perfume lingering in empty dresser drawers. Dad’s trembling hands making breakfast, burning toast. “Everything’s fine, princess.” But nothing was fine nothing is fine will anything ever be…
“Mom? Are you crying?”
Blink. Focus. Michael’s concerned face swimming before me. “Just tired, honey.” My voice sounds distant, hollow. Like speaking through water.
At home, Michael runs to show his new bandages to Amy. My teenage daughter barely glances up from her phone. “Whatever.” She’s been this way since I told them about their grandfather. Anger is easier than grief.
The kitchen walls press in. Too white, too clean. Mom’s dishes still in the cupboards, untouched since she left. Why did I keep them? Why do we hold onto things that hurt us?
“He doesn’t deserve a second chance,” Amy declares at dinner, stabbing her fork into innocent pasta. “He wasn’t there for you, why should we be there for him?”
Because he tried. Because he stayed. Because some wounds need more than adhesive bandages to heal.
“We’re family,” I say instead.
Amy scoffs. “Family doesn’t abandon family.”
But they do. They do and we forgive or we don’t and the wounds fester either way.
Later, I find Michael in the bathroom, carefully applying superhero bandages to his arms. “What are you doing, sweetie?”
“Practice,” he says solemnly. “For when we visit Grandpa. To make him better.”
My heart splinters. If only healing were that simple. If only we could cover our mistakes, our regrets, our years of silence with cartoon-decorated strips and make everything right again.
The phone rings. Dad’s number.
I let it ring once, twice, three times. Amy watches from the doorway, arms crossed. Michael holds out a Batman bandage like a peace offering.
Some wounds can’t be fixed with artificial solutions. But maybe… maybe they can be faced together.
I answer the phone.
“Hi, Dad.”