Break me

I

October 5, 2013

 Hi mom,

I thought of you the other day.

I had no business thinking about you, really. We weren't talking about you even. We were talking about my sister.

 She had had some back surgery, and we were talking about how she had to put this special cream on to minimize scaring. See, mom, you were nowhere near my mind at all.

Then grandma just had to mention something that you did. She said that you were really big into putting that lotion on your scars. She said that when you had surgery on your foot, the doctor said you would have a scar on your foot, but apparently you refused to believe that you would be stuck with a scar on your foot for the rest of your life so you put as much of that special cream on as you possibly could.

Grandma said that it worked too. She said you eliminated any scaring on your foot.

 Well, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no, no. I disagree there. I distinctly remember that you did have a scar on your foot.

 I remember because you used to ask me all the time to massage your feet. And on the right side of your right foot, there was a long thin scar.

I asked you about it, and you said you got it from some surgery. You loved it when I lightly rubbed your scar with my finger. You said sometimes your scar still ached, but I helped it feel better.

While we are on the subject of your scars, I remember another scar you had.

This one was a vertical scar across your stomach.

I've never really needed to ask where that one came from. I've just know. It came from me.

I was born through sea section birth. That's where it came from. Me. I once asked you if it hurt, and you told me that it didn't. Total bologna. I know it had to hurt because it looked ugly. But you always said any scar for me was worth it, and if it was for me it didn't hurt, and I made your hurt go away.

 You may have told me that it didn't hurt, but I can never forget your scar. I remember a few months before you died when you were laying in the brown chair in absolute pain with your shirt pulled up slightly, and I saw that scar.

You were doing everything that you possibly could not to cry because your body hurt so much from that terrible cancer, and the only thing I could do was watch. And the scar that was there because of me was still there. It would be there forever.

Honestly, this makes me want to cry.

I can't help it. If you were alive today, you would still have that scar.

I can't make music anymore either.

I used to play the piano, and you told me that my playing was so pretty. I used to sing, and you told me that my singing was so beautiful.

I just can't bring myself to play the piano anymore. It's too hard.

I can't sing. My voice cracks, and I get spit stuck in my throat.

I have a scar too.

It's across my left cheek. It's not noticeable like yours. In fact, no one really believes that I have a scar. But it's there, I'm telling you, it's there.

Mom, you were actually the person who pointed it out to me. You told me I got scratched by a branch when I was little. You showed me the mark on my cheek. It's still there too. It doesn't hurt me though. It's not even noticeable. I have nothing more than a dumb scar that is barely there.

I'm sorry I can't make music. I'm sorry that you had so many scars. I'm sorry that your scars hurt so much.

Love,

Grayson