Our tube of Neosporin is very small, the smallest size obtainable—except for travel packs perhaps—but it is always available when needed, always just there unlike anything else in our house or life. It is a kind of magic. This is only the second tube of Neosporin we have ever had. The first tube, equally small, we had for eleven years. With all the moves, all the chaos, all the work, all the wounds and falls, it was always there somehow, on the shelf in the bathroom cabinet, exactly where it was supposed to be. At the ready in every instance. I couldn’t believe when it was finally used up. I just had to accept it. Like a death at the end of a long good life. A transition, but manageable. The miracle was it lasted so long in the first place. This new tube we’ve had two or four years. The other miraculous thing is that we use it very often. Our mean cat jumps up and bites us every day. Or pounces on our calves with its claws. The scratches flare up like belligerent tots, blazing against infection. We lay the salve on, things simmer down, we know we have done the necessary, taken care of business. That’s the sweetest miracle of all, the third one, this little tube of Neosporin like a story, with no story coming out.
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