I found my mother's citizenship certificate in a sheaf of estate-related papers. I don't have any recollection of the scar; the memory of her physical form becomes more fuzzy in my mind the more time passes. I wondered what the story was behind that "visible distinguishing mark". My right temple mirrors hers with a different story behind it. A faint pinkish line by my right eyebrow is a memory of the mole removed to make sure nothing malignant lurked within. The lesion was benign but the scar remains as a souvenir. I remember my friend removing my stitches with a pair of nail clippers.
I have been fascinated by scars for as long as I can remember. The majority of people might find them ugly and aberrant but I've always thought they were interesting. They all tell a story, whether it's one we want to remember or not.
