a poem, not by me

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My sister posted this on FB tonight, so I thought I’d share it. It makes me think about my scars, the ones I like and the ones I hate. The ones that tell my story and the ones that keep me from telling it. Before you ever get evaluated for a transplant, most have a lot of scars. Afterward, you have many many more.

Scars


They tell how it was, and how time
came along, and how it happened
again and again. They tell
the slant life takes when it turns
and slashes your face as a friend.


Any wound is real. In church
a woman lets the sun find
her cheek, and we see the lesson:
there are years in that book; there are sorrows
a choir can’t reach when they sing.
Rows of children lift their faces of promise,
places where the scars will be.


- William Stafford

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