This weekend, when we were buying a pocket watch for Phil’s father’s birthday, I had one watch repaired and the band on another shortened to fit my wrist. The jeweller held it out so that he could close it to test the fit, and without thinking I gave him the arm closest to him…the one with the scars on the wrist.
Normally, it’s instinct to never offer that arm for anything, but I didn’t think about it until my arm was face up, with the criss-cross padding of scarring catching the bright light over the counter. Very uncomfortable.
It’s like being haunted by your past…all of the scars and marks that time and life leave on you are like ghosts of your past. These scars are from cutting. These very old ones are from my tomboy childhood, all the daredevil stunts that left their mark before I learned to be afraid. The indentation along my right side is from the broken ribs that I earned while I was buying and retraining problem horses and would ride anything.
It’s like being haunted by all the people that I used to be.