I have a scar.
Under my chin, on the right side.
Time and shadows have kept it white and hidden.
Then a moment will come when I catch it in the mirror.
And it’s lovely.
So I smile.
Sure, I remember that moment over 25 years ago when I was punished for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. More importantly, I remember the moments after. When I knew it wasn’t my fault. That the violence would some day end. That I was more than what people did to me.
When I see other people’s scars, I am intrigued.
I wonder what kind of lessons they learned from their injuries:
- Don’t climb really high trees barefoot in the winter?
- That nothing in the world is itchier than Chicken Pox?
- Look before you cross the street?
- That it is possible to thrive when others try to knock you down?
Scars mean the recipient is strong. She healed. He survived.
This strength, this healing, this surviving, these lessons, are all beautiful.
So when I see the scar I got as a child, I don’t see the bad.
I see everything else it stands for, and it is beautiful.
So I smile.
This post was in response to the Lightning & the Lightning-Bug Flicker of Inspiration Writing Prompt:
Write a story, poem, song, or blog post about something you, personally, consider to be beautiful. I especially encourage you to choose something that many other people don’t see beauty in…
Yes, I have about a bajillion other scars from rock climbing, walking into things, burning my forearms while removing cupcakes from a hot over. I think those are great, too. But this one, this particular one, came from something awful that didn’t shake me during 11 years of some pretty bad stuff. He may have left his mark on me, but I made the mark a positive part of me.
Which makes it all the lovelier.