A Constellation of Scars
Perhaps I should slow down. Then again, these scars tell my stories.
When I was fifteen, we stole a pair of shopping carts from a grocery store parking lot. My brother climbed inside my cart and my friends likewise readied up. The tree-lined street was still and dark, save for the little pools of yellow light.
We raced. The metal carts rattled like they were coming apart. My brother hunched inside our cart and I pushed our inverted dogsled as fast as I could run.
I could run pretty fast. I was tall and lean, and had been on the track team. We were winning.
And then we were flying.
The cart capsized suddenly, abruptly, cartwheeling end over end. My brother somehow remained inside when it landed upside-down, dazed but unharmed.
I landed six feet past the upended cart, skidding on my side. I nearly passed out when I saw how deep the gash went.
For years after, a large scar remained, pink and round, a testament to teenage stupidity. It’s faded now, smoothed over and only detectable to inquisitive fingers, like invisible Braille.
Most of my other scars are more obvious. There’s the one in the shadow of my chin. It doesn’t look anything like Harrison Ford’s famous scar but that’s how I…
