Scars

I love scars.
It may be that I am covered in them but, I think it is something different. Growing up I was questioned about the scar on my chest a lot. I hated it then especially the nick-name I aqquired because of it ("Frankenstien-Chest" real clever for a first grader). Looking back the scar helped me out a lot. People could tell where I was coming from when I was afraid to play a contact sport or could hardly breathe after running (the first 6 mos or so).
Scars tell stories. And the bruises and scrapes that come before them show real pain. You see a 5 year old girl with a scab on her knew and you know it's been kissed a thousand times. Growing up pains are often deeper. There is no visable scar for someone who has been disowned, let down, or lied to. Yes, you can sometimes tell a woman has been wronged by a man by the way she reacts to other men. You'll never know how severe it was, how deep the hurt ran.
Scars give an opening to talk about pain. Sometimes it is uncomfortable to mentions scars. If a woman has a scar across her face or your tattoo artist is missing a hand. How do you say, "Hey where is your other arm?" and "Are you sure you don't need it to put this mark on my body?" with compassion.
I wish my big hurt had left a scar. Something to bring up the pain. Hiding it inside just isn't working and pretending it didn't happen lost it's simplicty a long time ago.