Six years old.
I glance around me to see that no one is looking as I turn the bright orange cap of the Elmer’s glue bottle. Slowly tipping the bottle, nozzle pointed into my palm, I squeeze, then close it quickly and set the bottle back into my art box.
The cold white liquid oozes across my palm and I use a finger on my other hand to smear it around, creating a smooth, thin layer of glue across my skin.
Blowing on it helps it dry faster. I hold my hand just inches from my face as I try to dry the glue faster with my breath. I watch as it turns from an astonishing bright white into a pale semi-transparent sheath, etched with the detailed lines of the small hand encased within.
When the glue is finally dry, I flex my hand as wide as I can, the glue peeling up at the edges. It looks like the aftermath of a severe sunburn as my second skin begins releasing itself. My other hand darts to the crinkled edges, pulling at them slowly.
The goal is always to see if I can get it off in one piece. No rips. No tearing.
My tongue is pressed between my lips in concentration. Peeling gently, squinting my eyes as though that will keep me free from error. Finally, it releases.
I smile at my conquest, then set it carefully in the center of my desk: a tiny, white, perfectly preserved imprint of my palm… non-toxic, of course.
This post was written in response to a prompt by The Red Dress Club.
Mine your memories and write about the earliest grade you can recall.