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One-word Prompt: Scars

May 1, 2016

One night years ago, after a movie with my husband’s new friends, the conversation oddly turned to scars.

The sight of a nasty stab wound on the guy’s back from a bar fight made my husband cringe. To my chagrin, a faint half moon above his girlfriend’s left breast was revealed gleefully with more than an ample amount of cleavage. Not wanting to be left out, and knowing I only had one, on my knee, from flying down a hill at age 10 on my bike, I rolled up my pant leg and let everyone see the healed flap of skin I had begged my mother not to snip. I could still see my childhood self, in the shower, shivering and crying as if she’d threaten to amputate.

“Don’t cut it, don’t cut it, please, don’t cut it,” I’d pleaded amid sobs. My mother, who usually didn’t cave to sentiment, conceded. Of course, we all know I should have listened to her (as I would come to realize about many things).

If I’d had, I would be nearly scar free (on the outside anyway) like my husband, who didn’t share that night and confessed that the whole display made him quite uncomfortable. He’d been living in the U.S. only a couple of years and was still learning our customs.

“I was about to throw up,” he’d told me later. “Where I’m from, scars, they are not something to be proud of. They’re just reminders of hardship and pain.”

And, as we all come to learn, some heal much faster than others.



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