The Stories

The stories of my scars.

Do, do, do, la, la, la, la, do, do. As the world has spun on its slant axis, many odd objects have found themselves in violent encounter with my largest organ, these are The Stories of My Scars.

I have a scar on my right hand, my first knuckle of my first finger. When I was I don’t remember how old, my grandmother on my mom’s side died. 

I used to deal poorly with my emotions by hiding them. I did this because I thought that it was a more masculine way. 

My grandma sent us awesome packages. She sent one for each of our birthdays and one Christmas. Toys, underwear, pepperoni, halva, and clothes were among the lot. She would make us kiss her on the cheek. She gave us Sen Sen. They were little black breath things that plowed my taste buds with flavor.  She had couches that were covered with plastic. It was first at her house that I saw ice water in the refrigerator. I didn’t understand why anyone would put water in the fridge when you could get it out of the tap. She had a TV in the kitchen. I miss my grandma, but not in a pitying way, in an love filled fondness way. 

She was diagnosed with cancer. When I found out that she had died I went walking outside. Behind my parents’ house were windows, not installed in anything. One was broken with shards remaining in the window housing. I looked at that window and felt some sadness. I thought, “This idea is very foolish, you will be ashamed if you do it.”  I was very ashamed, but it was too late. I had already punched the glass. What made it worse was I had cut my knuckle badly. A small flap of skin hung loose. It really bled. I was very worried that I would be “caught” having done something so stupid and feel even more ashamed. I wasn’t. No one asked me how I got the cut. That is my scar.