I have a scar on the bridge of my nose, straight across.
I don’t see it, but others do.
Especially in the summer, when the slash of skin darkens.
It’s narrow, but long, slightly curved
like the edge of the paint can
my tiny toddler nose encountered
at the bottom of the basement stairs.
∼
One person who always saw the scar,
saw it all his life
was my father
who was supposed to be watching me
when I tumbled
over and over,
down and down.
∼
“We can get that fixed,”
he would say.
“It’s OK,” I would say.
It didn’t bother me
the way it bothered him.
Or maybe I liked that it bothered him.
I used to wonder, was he drinking?
In response to today’s word prompt: Scars
Writing with Spirit 
May 04, 2016 @ 04:37:06
Love This Poem!!!
So Happy To Read This.
May 04, 2016 @ 12:07:58
Thank you!
May 02, 2016 @ 05:12:10
Great Poem !! like it
May 02, 2016 @ 10:18:28
Thanks! Seems half my poems end up with my father’s drinking…
May 01, 2016 @ 19:52:17
Two enigmatic characters!
May 01, 2016 @ 19:17:26
ahhhh.
May 01, 2016 @ 19:04:46
last line… did you struggle over still wonder and used to wonder? i’d still be wondering. nice job. excellent finish.
May 01, 2016 @ 19:10:25
Only struggled for a second. I don’t need to know anymore. I remember when it dawned on me that the scar gave me power over him. I was a teenager.