Thin White Line

The coworker asked. "How'd you get that?"

Pointing at my forearm.

I froze.

I looked down at the thin white line.

It's barely there. Silver. Faded.

Almost invisible unless you're looking.

And I couldn't remember.

Not couldn't. Didn't.

There was a moment there

where I had to decide

whether to tell the truth

(which I didn't know)

or make something up.

I said: "I don't remember."

She seemed satisfied with that.

She moved on.

But I stayed with it.

The scar is so faint now

it could be anything.

A cat. A fence. A fall.

A moment of carelessness.

A moment of intention.

I genuinely cannot tell

which.

That's what's strange.

Not that I have a scar.

That I can't remember if it matters.

The skin around it

is pale compared to the rest.

Like the sun never quite reached

that small stretch.

Like something protected it.

Or damaged it.

I've been carrying this

for however long.

Years, probably.

And I've never thought about it.

Until someone asked.

Until I had to make up

a story about my own body.

Until I realized my own history

has already been rewritten

by time, by forgetting,

by the simple fact

that scars fade.

I looked down at my forearm

while she was talking.

The line was still there.

The mystery was still there.

The fact that I don't know

was still there.

And somehow that was worse

than any scar could be.