every scar tells
a story of struggles
- my hat and I had been doing some gardening, when I opened the door to receive a pharmacy delivery. I’m not sure if the delivery person was trying not to stare at my ginormous hat (maybe worried about not being able to escape its gravitational pull). Anyway, while trying to avoid the hat, the delivery person lowered their eyes, and their gaze landed on the not-so-wee scar left behind by my port-a-cath; and they totally froze, which is how I knew they were looking at the scar. To ease the tension, I said, “I got this one during a fight to the death. My enemy didn’t survive my ferocious chemical attacks.” The delivery person did not seem to care much for my chemotherapy jokes. Either that, or they were smiling deep, deep, really deep… under their mask. 🤔
- for Poets and Storytellers United --Weekly Scribblings #78: Micro-writings.