What I remember most about the cut on my chin is how much it bled. I was four-years-old and racing around Ms. China’s classroom on a toy milk truck when it happened. I must have lost my balance, or collided with something. I don’t remember the stitches, but I do remember the feeling of the large bandage across my chin. That was my first scar. I’ve since met dozens of people with scars on their chins, all incurred in childhood. Next came a large scar on my inner thigh when I flew off a mini bike on a peer in Kalamata and singed my skin on the muffler. I was 13. In my late teens I had a mole removed from my ankle, which although painless, was thoroughly unpleasant. For such a little thing, it left a pronounced scar. I have three small scars on my lower belly from a laparoscopy to remove endometriosis. That was a painful experience. A few hours after the surgery, I remember standing in the powder pink changing room, with Jason gently pulling up my gauzy underpants, and thinking, wow, this is love. It took a while to recover, but I did give up smoking that week, and we did go on to have three babies, so those scars are treasures. Scars spark up all kinds of memories, some positive, some painful.

How beautiful you are

he said

a tapestry of scars

Atticus