Crooked Arm

I have a crooked left arm. When I extend both my arms forward and twist them outwards, the left doesn’t move as much as the right.

When I was a kid in the Bukidnon highlands, we had to cross a small valley via a short cut route: a staircase made of concrete that extends down to the wooden small bridge over a small brook and ascends to the other side. The hand railing, made of wood was made smooth by kids who’d use this as a “slide”.

On top of the stairs, we’d position and sit our asses by using a supermarket carton as the sled. We’d slide down the entire stretch, slowly of course, until reaching the foot of the stairs by the bridge.

Encouraged by Harrison Ford’s daredevil moves as Indiana Jones and Roger Moore’s James Bond (people, this was the golden age of the Betamax), I sled down the railing as fast as I could. Only to lose my balance at the bottom; I had to use my left arm to support my fall, screaming my lungs out in the process because of the pain.

I'm always reminded of that fateful day everytime I look at my crooked arm.