Grief and scars

Rice love

The restaurant was dimly lit, but I could see the top of her scar that sat in the middle of her shirt’s neckline. My eyes went right to it; I wanted to stare. Not because her midline scar was a thing of curiosity, but because it is something I miss seeing on my boy. His scars were part of him in the same way his elbows were pointy and his eyes were blue and his lips were a darker shade red than others because of the low oxygen saturation in his blood. But I didn’t stare. I just wondered about her heart surgery as I ordered the tofu curry. Then I blinked back tears as she walked toward the kitchen.