Scars don’t phase me. They’re all there for a reason. Seen and unseen. They tell a story of who we are, our lives, the past, and the moments. Just some aren’t on our faces, a very vulnerable place to be.
Sometimes I see it; the way the light hits it, a bad angle. But majority of the time I don’t notice at all. It’s just a part of me, a part of who I am. If I run out the door and head to work, forget to pencil in my brow (I’m good at forgetting makeup in the day to day) I forget others may not be used to my naked face. A little stunned at the change. But no one has ever pushed the envelope even tho I humbly have all the best responses. I’d ironically use a poster quote from a guy I dated in college.
“Chicks dig scars.”
Yeah, let’s not make my mom faint, but It’s easy to joke about scars if you’ve never been cut.
After the accident, I remember my Grandpa Norman used to make me feel the most beautiful each time he greeted me on our visits. Color blind and legally blind the final years of his life, his sincerity in each greeting is irreplaceable as I knelt at his chair and grasped hand. Not out of pity but whole hearted love. I was afraid I’d never find anyone that made me feel that way again. Well, I did and I married him.
Beauty and scars set aside, in honor of this milestone- five years ago I wrote the following remembering my family’s accident. As my professor passed back our papers, she passed back mine last and said I should have it published. Life unfolds and that’s yet to happen but, it is what it is. Another memory I won’t forget.
Meredith Stone
The Driver’s Ed Seven Seconds Rule
I remember hearing sirens. Shrieking with urgency, I was alone with my thoughts emerged in darkness trying to remember the whirls of white amongst both sides of me, racing past as we kissed Grandma’s warm rosy cheeks goodbye that morning. I was alarmingly calm, breathing deeply as the sirens shifted from their obnoxious tri-tones to a harmonious melody drifting quietly away. I fell further into the darkness as I heard him say, “But it’s my turn to ride shot gun…but it’s my turn to ride shot gun… but it’s my turn…”
My mother’s tense words attempt to console me for her touch was helpless. I couldn’t feel her arms embrace me, her hand grasping mine, her warmth against my skin. My eyes were wide open and engaged but I couldn’t see anything. The darkness, too welcoming to push through, too caught off guard to react; I remained content in this unknown.
I wake bound in a stale room, filled with blinding whites, plastic trays, and metal objects. Curious, I look to the left of my bed, gently lift my hand and run my finger tips across the tray next to where I lay. I pull it towards me. Indents of circles, a straw, and a paper cup adorn the surface as I discover a new lever to evaluate under the tray. With a little resistance, I tug and a white arm pops out with the shiny object of them all on the end. I gaze into the mirror, taking in this foreign girl that stares back. I don’t say a word. No gasp, no screaming, no tears, no burning questions. I am distracted by the sensation of someone’s eyes watching me as I am startled, flip my head to the right but am instantly settled when her eyes meet mine. I hadn’t noticed my mother dozing off in the recliner beside me, worrying and wondering when her little eight-year-old daughter would wake up.
And I did. I left the warm darkness and returned to my family’s winter wonderland disaster. I returned to my hospital bed with a teddy bear in each arm, flowers on the window sill, and the warm touch of my mom’s freckled hand stroking the hair off my forehead and tucking it behind my ear. I created the film loop of my father pulling me out of the front seat, splattered in my blood, holding my head together as their world erupted in chaotic what-ifs and mine became still in darkness. I grew up in that moment, silently contemplative before speaking, before screaming at the mirror wondering who did this to me, before tears stream down my face at the hideous caterpillar stitched onto my face. Instead I think; leaving my emotions at the way side as my boisterous older brother paces the hall, muttering “I was the one who let her ride shot gun… I shouldn’t have let her…”
I feel a tap on my shoulder as I turn around in my desk to face a big-eyed rebellious brunette who sits behind me. We’re juniors in high school and our English teacher Mr. Hill hasn’t begun class yet.
“I think you still have a pillow crease imprint on your forehead!” she giggles pointing at my scar. I calmly cringe, suffocating my real emotions as I think, mull over, analyze before speaking, before screaming, before slapping her naïve smile off her face.
I let the silence hang in the air as I swivel back around. Even without the darkness, I am at peace with my thoughts, just thankful to just be alive.
20 years ago. Digging those overalls and metallic jacket am I right? I must have recently had a perm since my hair is naturally straight.
Junior year in college I re-enacted this in my theater makeup class. This has inspired some real cool Halloween makeup moments but most importantly- this moment let me dig deep. Each stitch was black thread I knotted and prepped. Old age was a required element though. Kind of unrealistic.
