300 Words about Scars
It is summer. A sun’s brilliance glistens on a ragtag pack of kids. We ride our bikes, struggling to climb the steep hill near the Pressley Farm. With noise and sweat, we make the cress. A snakish dirt road stretches beneath us. There is anticipation.
A yell of exuberance, we pedal madly to gain speed for the long coast ahead. A cloud of dust rises toward the sky. We release the handlebars. Arms stretch above our heads. Lungs inhale pure adrenaline. We are youth and can taste the sweetness of life before it grows bitter with age.
A sudden, metallic sound shadows our crashing bikes. The world instantly shifts, and it all changes. I lie beside my bike. I look upward toward the sky. I
feel a sharp sting from my knee. I see a red line of blood navigating down my shin. I notice the blood and scratches of the others.
I still have the scar. Everyone has scars. They are merely a biological response to the healing process. I look at it, and I remember the moment. I don’t think of the pain. It reminds me of the thrill of being young and free.
We have mental scars too. They are not pink and puffy like the one on my knee, but they exist all the same. They are part of the healing process created by the nonlinear paths of people. The loss of life, love or distance can create an unexpected shift.
As with my knee, the wound is there. The healing process forms a scar. It is not visible to others, but I can feel it. Looking inward to see it, I think only of the thrill, not the pain. That hill and you both remind me of youth and exuberance. I miss your adrenaline rush.
d-_-b “anarchist” by YUNGBLUD