The knife scraped through the potato skin

The knife scraped through the potato skin,

peeling it back, a thin, curled ribbon.

And there it was, on my left palm,

a pale, hardened patch,

thickened, a small, forgotten shield.

I hadn't seen it in years, or rather,

hadn't registered it, just accepted

the way the world felt different there.

It was from the shovel, maybe,

or the screwdriver I use wrong,

or just holding on too tight to nothing

for too long.

It doesn't hurt. It just is.

Proof of a friction I forgot to notice,

a quiet accumulation of small efforts

or resistances.

What other parts of me have hardened,

unseen, un-felt,

just keeping things from tearing open?