This Scar

My left hand. There’s this little scar. An elliptical area near the joint of my thumb, right where everyone could see it. Several times I’ve been asked, “How did you get that scar?” I always laugh. “Tripping” I say. Nothing more, unless they ask. I remember one time looking too closely at it. Ugly ridges and valleys rising and falling like grits shoved around a bowl. Thankfully it continues to fade, though I got it when I was twelve. I can remember how it looked the first few years, a distinct outline, and clear pocked skin, puckered around the fresh ridges of scar tissue. It reminds me of the scars I used to have that matched. On the same hand, one small scar over my pointer finger’s knuckle. On line with the lingering mark, like the droplet on an earring. An accent to match my permanent show of clumsiness, I would watch the scarred ridges stretch over the joint as I closed and opened my hand. That accent, that little droplet is faded now. When my hand lies flat it is invisible. There is only the slightest hint of it when I close my hand, the skin pulling over the bone and only the slightest tint of color shows where the lines used to be. Lines to match the scar at my thumb, proof that tripping can be more dangerous than you thought.
         This little scar is a constant reminder, on the hand that I write with. Whenever I am asked to relate the story, I privately take shame in the fact that I tell a story of my own clumsiness. I legitimately injured myself by something as simple and everyday as tripping. The disbelief in their tone as the asker reiterates the singular word. “Tripping? No way. Really..?” Yeah, really. I really just tripped down a paved hill and scraped myself in so many places that it was hard to move. Despite this horrid experience, I can’t complain about it because it was so mundane of an accident. I tripped. It happens all the time, I was just clumsy. Even though it probably hurt more than the time you were felled dramatically in an airsoft war, I play it down. I take this embarrassment to myself and force myself to learn from it. Whenever I run, especially downhill, I take care to always watch the ground and pick my feet up a little higher. I’m afraid of falling. I take every precaution that my center of balance is always firmly within my control. I’m grateful as the years pass and the scar fades. Every year and these habits of caution become natural and involuntary. Every year that I don’t have to think about the time I stupidly tripped.