Three inches Pale Smooth

Three inches. Pale. Smooth.

Caught in the warm light from the table lamp.

Your friend asked. I didn't know.

My own body a stranger with a story

it isn't telling.

How old is it? Years, probably.

What happened? I have no idea.

The arm still works. The scar doesn't hurt.

But it's there. Evidence.

A thing my body remembers

that I've already forgotten.

I reached for the salt.

Arm crossed the table.

Light found it.

That's when I saw it wasn't smooth all over—

there's a slight ridge,

like the skin had to learn

how to knit itself back together

and made a choice

I was never consulted on.

I'm aging in small increments

my own eyes don't catch.

Forgetting injuries as soon as they heal.

Living inside something

that keeps its own records.

The scar doesn't ache. Doesn't complain.

Just sits there, pale and patient,

remembering the thing

I've let go of.

Waiting for the next light to find it.

Waiting to be asked again

what I can't answer.