The Scars To Prove It

Have you ever heard the song “I’ve Got The Scars To Prove It” by the Road Hammers?

I follow a blog by a girl named Courtney, and she wrote a story about getting a 10 speed bike for Christmas one year. I was commenting about my first bike, a yellow big bird bike, and reminiscing over the scar I have on my knee from falling off of that bike, when the idea hit me.

Do you have scars? Are they attached to memories of your life, or just meaningless markings? Some of mine are meaningless, but some of them bring me back, like the one on my knee.

I was probably about 5 and my Dad had finally taken the training wheels off of my yellow bike. I was riding on the street in front of my house when I fell off and scraped my knee on the pavement. I sat there crying until my neighbor Bobby’s Dad came out of the house to help me home. Bobby was my good friend from across the street. We used to play in his sand box and have baths together and cut each other’s hair or make mud pies in the creek that ran next to my house. His Dad whose nickname was “Dude” used to call me “Sarah Bara” and give me noogies. The dime sized wrinkled scar on my left knee reminds me of that street- and all the people on it.

I have a scar on the knuckle of my right pinkie finger. It’s from burning myself on one of those wire mesh cooking utensils you use on open fire… you know you put your food in between the two pieces of mesh and then latch them together and hold it over the fire. My friend Ashley and I were camping with her parents and decided to make grilled cheese. I got too close to the hot wire when I was trying to get the sandwich out. That scar reminds me of Ashley and her crazy parents and all the fun times we had together in Junior high.

Lastly, on the top of that same hand, I have two scars. One of them I have no recollection of getting, and the other one is from my best friend clawing me. It was summer after 10th grade and she was staying with me (I had moved out-of-town) until school started up again. I was trying to take her picture and she didn’t want me to. I beat her down onto the bed and as I lifted the camera, scraaatttchhh she clawed me so deep I bled, and obviously, I scarred. Wench. That scar reminds me of all the things we did that summer. That was probably the last time our friendship was how it had been our entire lives. It changed after that- we grew up (or I did) and moved out and fought and we just changed as people and eventually stopped talking.

So- those are my scars. What are yours?