The Line I Kept

My sleeve caught it,

that raised, pale line

on my left arm,

a faint design.

It woke the ghost

of seven years,

the bike, the gravel,

all the tears.

The scrape, the sting,

the gritty dirt

lodged deep inside.

It always hurt

to clean it out.

My mother's frown.

The clumsy fall,

the world turned down.

Now just a ripple,

smooth and white,

a story written

in the light

of morning. Just

a small, long scar,

to show how far

I traveled. And still are.