A very small, and perhaps insignificant, fact about me,
is that I have a tiny, but noticeable, scar on my right knee;
“insignificant” now, but when I received my scar it was anything but-
however, I suppose it serves me right to reach over a guarded-fire for a nut.
Every time I look at my scar I am reminded of the day that I got it:
I was about 7 years old- full of joy, full of life, full of love, and full of spirit.
To me a fire, especially a “guarded-fire”, was nothing to fear;
however, after my leg touched that metal guard, I admit I cried a thousands tears.
Even now, two decades later, the memory of that event still remains with me;
I wasn’t traumatised by what happened, but when I look at my scar it still reminds me.

Scar’s are our external, internal, prevalent, and unseen,
reminder’s of our lives, and where we have been.
Scar’s are important, sometimes painful, lessons to learn of our lives-
an indelible mark that our memory, emotions, and body, never fail to revive.
Just as a heart once broken never loves quite the same again,
the memory of an event that makes us take a step back is always one of pain.

If I have been scarred by one thing in my life, it happened on September 11, 2001:
the day when insanity and chaos took hold, people lost their lives, and nobody won.
On that day, I watched live on TV, what I saw as the world coming-apart at the seams,
and to this day, when I look back, I still don’t understand the motive, the mind, nor the means
of those who scarred not only the people of New York City, but the world itself-
those who, over time, became so alien of Humanity, that they couldn’t live with themselves.
Even after a dreadful and horrifying event the wounds that were made begin to heal;
the memories never go away, but we become experts at what we show and what we conceal.