When I was young and I skinned my knee I winced at the pain but also at the strange contrast between my pale skin and what imagined were some badass battle wounds. As I got older I started resenting that very same skin for becoming tough and hard on the outside, but so so vulnerable on the inside. It was like my own invisibility cloak, woven with carefully chosen words and the ability to make a present story sound like the past. Soon I was writing odes to that same skin about it’s resilience in the face of attack, I worshiped the body’s healing power without considering why it needed so much healing. I bear this well. Now I find my skin is armor, battle-worn and old news. Sometimes I yearn for the time when I first realized I was breakable, horrified and a little proud of my skinned knee, I learned to take that turn a little bit slower the next time I rode my bike. Maybe that’s what we all need, to take that turn a little bit slower the next time we ride our bikes.