On Wounds and Scars

When I was seven years old I fell off my pony and broke my arm. It was no fun, especially for a very active little me who could hardly sit still for two minutes. (thanks a lot missy) But after I got past the pain and surgery and looong weeks of wearing a cast I realized there was an upside to the whole ordeal- the awesome scar that I could show off. For the next few days my favorite thing was to retell the story with *ahem* “absolutely no exaggeration.” For a dramatic conclusion I would pull up the sleeve of my favorite blue t-shirt to reveal a pale mark the size of a pencil eraser. I explained to my little buddies that the scar would probably be there forever but it wouldn’t cause pain anymore. It would just remind me how I was hurt and how I had “gotten…