I burned myself a few weeks ago. An awful burn right on my thumb that grew to a huge blister.

The doctor looked at it closely and said, "Second degree, be careful with it, don't bump it, let the blister heal it. Whatever you do, don't break the blister."

And so I did. For thirteen days I was careful. I protected it with bandages. I peaked at it, worried that it looked odd. How would it ever go back to normal? Would it leave a scar?

All the while, I panicked a bit inside. It seems the burn brought up old anxiety from a bad burn I had when I was three. It's my very first memory: my father rushing me to the bathroom to rush cold water on my foot which was burned of all things on a toy - a toy from seventies - a hot plate to melt rubber and turn it into creepy crawlies.

And so, as my thumb healed I sat for a while with the memories of being that scared little kid, in pain, being cradled in my father's arms and then I thought about how it isn't such a bad memory after all. All these years I've always looked back and saw the pain and fear, somehow missing the love that was there holding me all along.