BIRTHMARK

            From birth there has been a small cluster of dark spots on the right side of my chest, the only place freckles have ever appeared on my body. I guess you could call it a birthmark, but that wouldn’t be an entirely accurate description of these little spots.  My mom tells a different story about it.

            November 7, 1941 fell on a Friday, an unseasonably cold, sunny fall day in St. Louis.  She was 21 years old and hugely pregnant.  On this morning she decided to walk the few blocks from home to Broadway, where she could catch a streetcar to Soulard Street.  There is where she liked to shop for weekly groceries.  The Soulard Market was and is famous in the city for vendors selling fresh meats, fish, and vegetables.  After making her few modest purchases she made the uneventful trip back home to plan the evening meal, to be shared with her husband, my dad. 

            She had always been fond of liver and onions, and this was to be the main dish for supper.  Un- wrapping the liver, she lightly poked with her index finger to test the meat for freshness—and became violently nauseated.  It was my signal that I was ready to enter the world.  I was born at 8:08 that evening.

            Mother is certain that the dozen or so little brown spots clumped together on my chest represent the places she had prodded that raw liver.  Who am I to argue?  It’s probably true because just the thought of having liver for dinner gives me a queasy feeling.