I woke up one morning looking at the inside of my forearm. It was more like I was stretching my arm and noticed something was missing. I stared and stared, and could barely see the remnants of a burn from when I was little. I burned it either from an iron or a radiator pipe. The pain though was impressed upon my memory since this was before the age of five. It left a nasty scar that faded after several years but has almost disappeared decades later. I got use to my quiet companion for so long that I didn’t realize I loved that thinner piece of speckled flesh. It was first treated to by my mother’s hands. Then later by me as I grew. It has been cleansed, moisturized, massaged, exfoliated and this process has been repeated several times over. But first it did come with a sacrifice albeit an unintended one. Then well what was I to do? I already cried. My mother did comfort me. What was left to do was to accept that it was now a part of me. It wasn’t a choice I made. It was accidental but there it was with me day in and day out.
In my 30’s, I found myself a single mother, divorced, very hurt. Was it my fault? Was it his? Was it accidental? I was overwhelmed by all of these questions that I intentionally took time away from getting into a committed relationship other than myself and my boys. Then what do you think happened? I met someone.