My stitches were removed this week. It was simple enough that there was no need for anesthetic, or even the expertise of a doctor. The technician took care of it and reassured me that I was healing well. 

A sign in the office stated that one in five people will face skin cancer. I had no idea the numbers were that high. I grew up in an era of sun worship on the California beaches. While I was more interested in sand castles, there were plenty of girls around me lying prone on towels for hours. 

The scar will be unobtrusive eventually. It is still a bit Frankensteinesque. No matter. It is off to the side, and I never remember to wear earrings, so the attention to that part of my anatomy is scarce. The technician mentioned that she has a scar on her forehead. She had sharp scissors in her hand at the time pointed at my neck so I declined to peek. John has a scar on his hand from an altercation with broken glass, though both of us have long ago forgotten that it is there. 

Scars are souvenirs of struggles that we survived. There is probably still one where I had my appendix removed, though I spend no time checking. Plus I do not miss the mysterious organ.  Scars tell a story, and are runes written on these packages we call bodies. 

Benjamin would not approve of me saying this. For him, Scar is synonymous with betrayal, based on the movie he knows by heart- The Lion King. Yet the truth is that Ben carries his own invisible scars, that act up when he remembers the emotions that attack from the inside. I will be gentle with my son this week, as it is the anniversary of a dark time. 

Some of us have obvious lashes, vulnerable to the staring eyes of strangers. Others manage to keep their wounds hidden from view. Perhaps one day we will  come to celebrate those evidences that we are alive, rather than pretend that we were never broken or had a brush with death.