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Memory of an Irony

#HAWMC Day 8: Things Remembered
What is an item you have kept with you that
reminds you of an important time in your life?
Whether it was a good day, a stressful time, or a
happy moment… why does this item remind you
of that period of your life?

I was mentally going through my drawers, my closets, my “Everything.” for something that would be interesting to show’n’tell about.

I remembered my grandmother’s bracelet, how she was told she had a five year timeline and how she’d lived several years past. I remembered all of the ultrasound images from each of my younglings, and how each pregnancy had its own whirlwind of awesomeness and sadness. I remembered my natal necklace that I’d had made to personify my love for all things Cosmos at the very moment of my own birth.

Then I put the query out to my husband, hoping that maybe he would think of something that I might have overlooked…something he thought others would be more interested in reading about…

It was kind of like when a Monster Truck meets a bug on its windshield.

“You kept your scar.”

Holy, sweet mother of jumpin’ feckerdoodles, Batman.


I did, indeed.

ScarThere have been multiple times I’ve pondered having plastic surgery to replace the scar I have running along my left hand. The last time I’d pondered it was when there was the reality of having a wedding ring on that very same hand.

There’s not a day that goes by that I don’t see it, that I don’t remember it, that I don’t know how fortunate or how unbelievably strong I am as a survivor.

I did. I chose to keep my scar.

Keeping a permanent reminder of a night my life was almost lost after a brutal assault isn’t to punish my memory, or, to endure residual emotions.

My scar is proof-positive. My scar, to me, is the visible reminder of my endurance, perseverance and tenacity…in a world when something like disease, which threatens my very cellular activity…is an invisible state of being.

Ironic, isn’t it?

Maybe that’s part of why I continue to keep it. An illustration of life’s dramatic irony.

My hand that has pulled a child from my body.

My hand that has raised them up.

My hand that has wiped my tears and *facepalm*-ed and pulled off clothing in lust and in love.

My hand that received an oath upon its finger.

My hand that has baked and prepped and cooked for my family of seven.

My hand has taken in rescues and fosters and comforted them when they tremble.

My hand that has put bling on scrapbook pages and medium on canvas.

Kintsukuroi (金繕い) (Japanese: golden repair) is the Japanese art of fixing broken pottery with lacquer dusted or mixed with powdered gold, silver, or platinum, a method similar to the maki-e technique. As a philosophy it treats breakage and repair as part of the history of an object, rather than something to disguise.

bowl gold

Maybe that’s how I see my scar…

…not as where a wound did not heal properly and where fibrous connective tissue has formed…

…but as a gold streak of empowerment.

True story. <3



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