I looked at my hands the other day.
Really looked.
I saw the flesh, and the sinew, and the odd curves as the tendons snake their way back into their home

I saw my right ring finger;
Remembered there was a scar
And I looked,
For a while.
And I saw it

Faded but there,
Clear and standing.
Brazen roughness against the smooth porcelain.

I remember an event,
I'm not quite sure.
A fall.
A scrape.
A tumble.
Some sort of momentary tragedy.

I don't remember how it happened now.
And I found comfort in that thought.