I not only remember the scars, I get to look at many of them every day. When I’m brushing my teeth, washing my face, I see the scars. For years I would nonchalantly avoid the mirrors, finding something else to do while multitasking brushing my teeth and getting my shoes, looking out the window while blow drying my hair.
Oh I remember the scars, each and every one of them. I’ve come to terms with all of them. I just didn’t want to see them every single day.
Years and healing have done wonders, but so has aging. A funny thing happened. Sure, whatever, the maturity of wisdom brings peace and acceptance, yadda yadda yadda. But wrinkles happen. And the questions, sideways looks, slow, then stop. And just as each new scar appeared, all from incidents and accidents, life and stupidity, each one stopped being the center of attention.
It’s not just me who has accepted the scars. Society has deemed that an acceptable amount of life has passed that they now meld into the natural aging process. Now only I know they’re there, just like the others that aren’t readily visible. The looks and sideways glances that I’d been getting since I was 8 years old, are gone. I don’t miss it, in fact, I find a comfort in not being seen for my scars first.
Now I can be alone with my scars. I can appreciate them instead of avoid them. I can reminisce about each one, and how it came to be. I earned every single one, and now I can be quietly proud of myself, one scar at a time.
Scars are life’s souvenirs.