Slice of life: A matter of inches

To shoot a musician in the hand is as cruel as piercing a sword through his heart. That is the sad ending in Robert Rodriguez’s 1995 movie, “El Mariachi.” The villain takes away El Mariachi’s livelihood.

Last week my dad had a near fatal accident with an electric handsaw. The saw bounced back from his hand and sliced his wrist. Dad often wears gloves but wasn’t that day.

My sister Julie’s boyfriend, Pollo, rushed dad to the emergency room. The doctor said the saw missed an artery by an inch.

Thank goodness Dad didn’t lose his movement of his hand. That would have been the end to his longtime weekend musician job. He’s played the guitar most of his life. By day, dad is a baker.

Someone was watching out for Dad.

This got me thinking about my worst fears, one of which, as a writer, would be to lose my eyesight. I depend on my eyes to read, which I do a lot of; both for business and pleasure. I also depend on my eyes to do research on the Internet and write.

But then I think of the movie, “Soul Surfer,” which I have yet to see, about a surfer who loses her arm in a shark attack. What does she do? She learns to surf one-handed.