My sister and I exchanged silent whispers, plotting our nextway to pass the time. Only able to create with what we had, w e were forced to use our imagination. The games often ended up with one, or both, of us in tears but it was preferable to boredom.

The games came easy to us. It was as simple as identifying an item or items and a premise. Today the items were full trash bags that hadn’t yet made their way to the dumpster and the premise was hurdling.

To anyone who didn’t live in our household, two children dragging bulging trash bags down a hallway may have looked like a weird sight, but our four older siblings had grown accustomed to stranger things.

We set up the “hurdles” in a not-so-equidistant manner (not that it really mattered) and my sister quickly claimed the first turn, as always. She took her place, in an over exaggeration of a running start. And off she went.

She made it over each hurdle – easily. And after her final landing, she turned to me with a smirk and projected a confident “Beat that!”

And my childish, competitive self did not take that lightly.
I took my place.
I saw my goal, I predicted my victory.
The gloating rights were practically mine.
I took off in a run that evolved into a leap…
Hurdle One.
Hurdle Two.
Hurdle Three.

And somewhere between Hurdle Three and Hurdle Four, a stray light bulb found its way out of the fourth trash bag and into my landing zone.

Hurdle Four.

Crack! My impact shattered the bulb, leaving a large shard buried in my foot and many small shards scattered over the floor. My sister immediately began shrieking at full volume and my older siblings rushed out of their rooms. It took me a second to register everything that had just happened and the pain that I was experiencing.

Ouch.