Scars, I have a lot of them. I have little nicks on my hands, chicken pox on my fore head and belly and of course the one on my jaw from childhood bath fall accident. Most people have them, scars are a sign of life will lives, they are stories of carelessness or bravery or so small you can not remember where they came from.
My body shows the story of my hips in stark relief. I have a 2 cm thin white line on my right wrist. It is a reminder of what happens when a two year old rips out an IV line. I have another on my knee from an ulcer that developed because nothing is going to stop a six year old running around, not even a half body cast. (Although my mother did keep me from getting it too wet, like similar aged boy we saw one day, his cast was brown and smelled!)
The big guys are hidden, I have a lovely curvy one on my left hip and a whole world of train train tracks and fun on the right. I used to I use to fairly self consciousness of the scars, growing up in Australia and being a swimmer they were on display a lot and you picked up the furtive stares. As I have got older it is less of an issue. I worry about my belly more than my old friends. Along with my limp they just tell a story, not all that interesting but on that has been intervening in my life. Effecting decisions and general life.
I have hidden them, hated them and slowly grown to love them, I have photographed them and am comfortable showing them off.
But on Thursday I am going to lose one. The long straight one down my right thigh. The one someone once though was cotton hanging from short shorts.
It will be cut out and a new scar will be in its place. This feels a little odd. It is the last one that was opened, I can remember the stitches coming out.
The new one will be longer and will trace around onto my butt. Something to photograph? Yep.
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