A Scar

I always thought it would go away. It didn't look like much, I didn't even feel it when it happened. As I drove away I just noticed the blood on my arm, a scratch, an inch and a half, hardly anything at all.

I woke up tired, cramped in a twin bed with her next to me. She'd wanted to spend the night, I said it wasn't a good idea. She'd laid some reasoning down that would make sense to a reasonable person, and I felt bad and agreed. It would be easier this way, and we had a perfectly fine time.

But in the morning I had things to do. Dishes to wash, clothes to pack, food to eat and stuff in the cooler. I'd acquired more than I'd realized that summer, the town was filled with so many record shops and bookstores and homemade interesting this-and-that. I had to fit all this into my little two-seater, I had to be on my way. I didn't have time for a walk, or breakfast, or anything she wanted. I had to go.

Goodbyes are never good when they come from me. I care too much or I care too little or I outstay my welcome or say nothing at all. I'd walked her down to the front door, given her a hug and a final kiss, and sent her on her way. Then I went back up to pack. Perhaps we could've eaten a little something. I had much more than I'd realized.

That's when it must have happened. Or when I was loading everything into the car. My arm must've grazed the trunk, or the edge of a cardboard box. I hadn't felt anything. I was bleeding, I was cut, but I hadn't felt a thing. I assumed the wound would heal and vanish and that would be that. But after days and weeks and months and years I am still left with a scar on my forearm. It is strange to me, that something so little, so unnoticeable, should leave such a lasting effect.