The Scar

He saw the scar every day.

Though smooth, that smoothness was more
Haunting than a sign of healing.

This scar flesh was not proud.
Suggesting a new, greater strength.

The amethyst hues and serpentine path
Unseen by others,
Only served to remind him of pain.

Yes…the scalpel saved his life,
But it left this reminder,
Exposed to him by the mirror,
Again.

Even in the intimacy of that moment,
Just for his eyes,
The reflection of his body,
Made uncompromisingly clear
The embarrassment he felt.

What would she think?

His body now marked indelibly,
By the same blade that saved his life.

In that moment of self-consciousness,
And exposure,
She appeared.

Standing not only by him…
But with him.

Without speaking, her eyes spoke.

Without judgement, her fingers extended,
And with a depth of grace,
Gently,
Slowly,
Traced the uneven,
Unwelcome path of that scar.

And in doing so,
She offered…

And his body,
Mind,
And heart, welcomed so profoundly…
Her acceptance,
Of him.

Inglorious.

Imperfect.

 

© 2017 W. C. Stacia, Jr.

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