It is a wondrous act, the art of rebuilding. Fractured and pulverised, like the component’s of stars. I was told there was a probability that I would never eat nor drink by myself again. That the nasogastric tube may be in place for the rest of my life. I was fifteen. I wish I had pictures of myself at that time to share with you. It was in the era before digital cameras, and nobody cared enough to keep a photographic journal of my recovery. I have snapped the relevant images within my mind. I found the white tracksuit pants I was wearing on that bitter winter’s night scrunched up in my wardrobe. They were torn, and despite having been washed, had stains from where blood and urine smattered. They were hidden in the back of my wardrobe, a shameful piece of my past. I retrieved them, and held them close. When I got dressed that winter’s night, I had no idea that I would be fighting for my life within a short while. I still have the gold bangle I was wearing. My wrist was fractured in the fall, though I barely noticed. It’s bent out of shape, having adapted to my twisted wrist. It has many scratches, from where bark chips stabbed it. I still have the Hartshill rectangle, which had been wired into my back in the first surgery, and my body cast, of which I was in for several months. I painted it. These horrid relics provide some comfort. In the absence of photos, which detail what I looked like after the fall (my face was bruised and cut, and I looked nothing like myself), these relic’s are evidence that it happened. That I survived. They are capsules confirming that it was as bad as I remember, and that I was stronger than that which tried to destroy me. I wish I had pictures of myself pre-surgery and post. Of the first time I walked again. Of myself in the body brace I wore for two years. I have my relics, and I am thankful for that.