Thursday, July 30, 2009
On my shoulder it is straight and clean, didn't even hurt. Surgical, precise, in a few years you might not even notice. Sometimes they do that, you know: fade into the layers of skin, subcutaneous.
The one on my left foot I will not forget. A bit of sun-blackened flesh was found at the scene, sheared off in the unhappy meeting of living thing and inanimate object. A profile view shows indentation, once home to strata of tissue and skin. A shapeless, purple-white souvenir I paid too much for.
They both tell my story, will keep telling, even paled with time and lost from sight. Or perhaps they are deeper still, enough to catch my wrinkled eye while I pray my last chapters. For now, they are mid-healing and in good company.