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