She was a thirty-something, the mom of seven, tolerating with a smile the extra children and teens running through her kitchen, and I was sixteen when we first met. She mentored me at times with advice about womanhood, and I taught her the latest dances.
That was close to thirty years ago.
Today, I walk into her bedroom and her husband motions me closer. An enemy I cannot see has ravaged her body and will soon take her from us.
Sitting gently beside her, I take her hand in mine. Her eyes flutter wide and a smile rises on her face. “I’m going to be okay.”
Her voice is as bright as her smile, but her hand involuntarily trembles in mine.
Have you seen this? And, before I can respond, she unsnaps the front her floral cotton gown. I brace myself to see her scars.
We all have scars, silvered with time. You cannot transverse this life without receiving a few. With time, they fade to a silver shimmer but they never go away completely.
What do you do with your scars?
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