The mower kicked back a rock. My right hand was gone before I felt the pain.
I'm a landscaper. That hand was my living. Now I'm learning to write with the other one.
I bought a pack of blue Bic pens. Cheap, the kind you find at the gas station.
Every evening I sit in this plastic lawn chair, the last week of my lease, and I write my name over and over.
It looks like a five-year-old's. But I'm getting better.
I'm writing a letter to my daughter. I haven't spoken to her in three years.
I don't know if I'll send it. But I'm learning to form the words, one crooked letter at a time.
Maybe that's the second chance. Not the sending. Just the learning.