Down, Down, Down We Go

Sometimes I look at my body, and it feels like... not quite a roadmap, because the symbols don't tell anyone where to go, but more of a storybook. Each little mark is a reminder, the key to a story, a series of memories. The commas around my mouth, mostly hidden when I smile, from the Saint Bernard who tried to eat my face. The pale diagonal line across my sternum from the cat who got his hind foot stuck in the V-neck of my scrub top, before I finally started having my mother-in-law custom-make my scrubs to better fit a skinny, flat-chested girl. The tiny L-shaped scar at the base of my left index finger, dating back to when I was four years old and my neighbor's dog decided to try to share my bread and jam, starting me on a lifelong road of getting marked up by animals. I know them all, and even when I hate them, I love them, because they're part of me and part of my story.

And I look at the red, burned skin on the palms of my hands, and the blisters on my fingertips, and maybe it's just the Ultram talking - without it, I wouldn't be able to type right now, God knows - but I can't help but wonder what these scars will look like, and think about how, someday, they'll be proud badges of this story, too.

( Hidden, because this is a long one..... )