Helen said, apropos of
nothing, “I’ll bet I’m the only person in town who has a scar from a rabbit
bite.”
I, of course, said
nothing, because there was nothing to say, although I was silently wondering
how to get her into the “special” unit at Shady Rest.
“I’ve been thinking,” she
continued, “of things that are distinctive to me. That rabbit bit me when I was
only four, and the scar still shows. I’m sure that must be unique.”
I didn’t want to say that
I see people with rabbit bite scars in the “special” unit at Shady Rest all the
time, so I went along with her assumption.
“I’ve got a knife scar,
too,” she said, “but lots of people have those.” Yes, she went to high school
in Gary, Indiana, so that figures.
It got me to thinking,
though, about those scars that are unique to each of us. Sometimes people see
them, but they would never guess that they come from a rabbit, or a giant angry
beaver, or some other furry impositioner.
That’s okay, for certain
things to be for each of us alone to know.
In Now That I Have
Cancer I Am Whole I wrote a chapter about how when I die all the memories
that are mine alone will die with me. Many readers have said it’s their
favorite chapter. It’s poignant and personal. Everyone understands. When I
wrote it, it made me at least wistful, if not downright sad.
Now, though, I see it in a
somewhat different light. There are certain memories that are mine alone. Like
the delighted look on Helen’s face when she decided no one else can match her rabbit
scar. Like the surprised look on her face the first time I kissed her. It’s okay
that the memories that are mine alone should go with me alone, wherever I
journey. You, too.
John Robert McFarland
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