The Scar

Someone mentioned a scar last night–a jagged scar on her calf from a childhood run-in with barbed wire. At the mention, a charcoal-tinged, moon-shaped scar on my child’s shin popped instantly into my memory. Running across the patio, he had tripped on a low-lying barbecue, gashing his little leg. We cleaned and bandaged it with gauze and love. But the wound left a scar…. and a slight remnant of charcoal that we hadn’t managed to clear away. Growth into his adult body stretched the scar but also masked it in the stubby hair that padded his man legs. Even so, I remember vividly how conscious he was of that scar in his adolescence …. how it became a little badge of honor and a good story to tell in his adulthood …. how his stepmother at the time suggested that my failure to get him stitches indicated the deficiencies of my motherhood … how I always felt just a little guilty that I hadn’t found a way to prevent his scar but also a little pride that I was a mother who knew that scars and bumps and bruises and breaks of the body and heart were a required part of the package in this journey through life.

Of course, I never dreamed the ultimate break would be mine, and the jagged scar would be etched across my heart.

I miss his little scar. I wish I could clean and bandage his wounds with gauze and love. I wish that little tinge of charcoal was here to tell the story.