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deplusenplusYour father is covered in scars.
When you were small you asked your mother about them. The jagged lines on his chest and up his arms and across what seemed like everywhere on his skin. It’s not as if he ever went without a shirt, with sleeves, but sometimes when he was off mind, you would catch a glimpse of him. You asked where they were from, and she told you with white simplicity that they were from hurt.
Standing in the bathroom looking in the mirror, you look at your chest and run your hand up the inside of your arm. Same height, same eyes, same feet, same hands, same everything. Same mind? You understand now the meaning of those scars and you understand that they were from the same hurt that rotted your mother’s bones.
When you were small you asked your mother about them. The jagged lines on his chest and up his arms and across what seemed like everywhere on his skin. It’s not as if he ever went without a shirt, with sleeves, but sometimes when he was off mind, you would catch a glimpse of him. You asked where they were from, and she told you with white simplicity that they were from hurt.
Standing in the bathroom looking in the mirror, you look at your chest and run your hand up the inside of your arm. Same height, same eyes, same feet, same hands, same everything. Same mind? You understand now the meaning of those scars and you understand that they were from the same hurt that rotted your mother’s bones.
