The Lost Children

I don't think I really respect Michael Jackson, but I never fancy the idea of anyone's death, either. 
Arrivederci, MJ.

We pray for our fathers, pray for our mothers.
Wishing our families well.
We sing songs for the wishing, of those who are kissing.
But not for the missing.

So this one’s for all the lost children.
This one’s for all the lost children.
This one’s for all the lost children, wishing them well.
And wishing them home.

When you sit there addressing, counting your blessings.
Biding your time.
When you lay me down sleeping and my heart is weeping.
Because I’m keeping a place.

For all the lost children.
This is for all the lost children.
This one’s for all the lost children, wishing them well.
And wishing them home.

Home with their fathers,
Snug close and warm, loving their mothers.
I see the door simply wide open.
But no one can find thee.

So pray for all the lost children.
Let’s pray for all the lost children.
Just think of all the lost children, wishing them well.
This is for all the lost children.
This one’s for all the lost children.
Just think of all the lost children.
Wishing them well, and wishing them home.

You matter.

When you love the work you do and the people you do it with, you matter.
When you are so gracious and generous,
and aware that you think of other people before yourself, you matter.
When you leave the world a better place than you found it, you matter.
When you continue to raise the bar on what you do and how you do it, you matter.
When you teach and forgive and teach more before you rush to judge and demean, you matter.
When you touch the people in your life through your actions (and your words), you matter.
When the legacy you leave behind lasts for hours, days or a lifetime, you matter.
When you see the world as it is, but insist on making it more like it could be, you matter.
When you inspire a Nobel prize winner or a slum dweller, you matter.
When the room brightens when you walk in, you matter.

And when kids grow up wanting to be you, you matter.

Ah, life.

"I hate the fact that you keep telling me how you love her. And how she is so similar to me. I wish it was me. We've only been together for few weeks and yet, I can't imagine my life without you in it. I can live without you. I just don't want to. It's so selfish of me to wish that you'd break up with her one day and turn to me instead. As painful as it is, I realize that even if you do, you probably won't choose me. I would remind you of her too much. Knowing I would never have the chance to be with you hurts me much more than losing the chance itself."

Afraid of... me?

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, 'Who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous?' Actually, who are you not to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

[Marianne Williamson]

Two local foreigners invading the city!

After two unbelievably busy and dreadful weeks of assignments and presentations, finally my friend and I had some stress relief. This is actually a plan we had decided to do weeks before, but the deadlines weren't permitting us for such daring momentary leave. So here we are, doing it exactly after the last day of our hellish week. It was fun, hilariously conducted, freely planned and simply unforgettable.

Here's the concept: 

My friend, Amanda, and I would stroll down the streets of Jakarta in disguise of foreign tourists. Our gears were simple: sunglasses, cameras, backpacks, shorts, and trainers. Oh, don't we love the sunglasses! We would fool the inhabitants of the city by acting lost around the streets and being able to speak nothing else except English. Now, my friend, has the most Indonesian look an Indonesian can have. So we made up the fact that she was a Thai, and me, looking Chinese than ever, decided to make up a fake identity of a Korean. Our fake names were B for me (as in Bernadette, my name) and Andy for Amanda.

Off we went!

We agreed to meet up at 8 o'clock in the area of Museum Fatahillah. I arrived before Andy, and I patiently browsed around the Museum's area while waiting for her. It felt nice to walk around with gentle breeze paddling my face because the weather was friendly and the area was secluded from the main street. Around half an hour later, Andy showed up. We started taking pictures and our first picture was of Andy stupidly sticking her face inside the mouth of an old cannon replica. 

We played around and took pictures for some brief 10 minutes before we explored the reserved streets of Kota Tua (Old City). The buildings were so old, they stood contrarily different from other modern buildings besides them. We visited an old bridge at which photographers usually take their pre-wedding clients to. We also found an old building, very badly ruined, standing next to a modern well-built Batavia Hotel. It was such an heart-breaking irony to see two buildings of different generations standing hand-in-hand, next to one another but in such different conditions. I really wonder whether extra efforts have been made by governments to reserve the area because not only Old City holds invaluable historic value, the buildings there were actually very beautiful. We go to Europe to see the old buildings and street lamps but in fact, we have our own neglected buildings here in Jakarta. Some were okay, but most of them were in such poor conditions we just had to take pictures of them. We walked around for an hour and half, and took LOTS of pictures which will be posted in an entire separate album somewhere near the future. 

Our next destination are the museums in Old City. We first went into Museum Wayang, in which we were not allowed to bring any cameras. I wonder now why we weren't allowed to do so. And apparently, when I got home, I found some pictures I took in the museum! I forgot, was it because I subconsciously didn't give up my camera? :P Well, inside the museum, we saw the history, and the story of one of Indonesian's most famous culture: the Wayang (shadow play). There are two types of Wayang: Wayang Kulit (leather puppet) and Wayang Golek (wooden puppet). It has now developed its third type: Wayang Orang (human puppet). Basically we saw lots of Javanese puppets and some foreign puppets from various countries like France, Russia, China, Poland, India, and England. It was an educational visitation if only we weren't so freaked out inside. The museum was damp and smelled funnily. We were in the first half of the building and felt there was something weird about the dampness and the darkness of its lighting. Then we stepped out to a backyard in which some of VOC's generals were buried. We saw tombstones, but we were very much happier there due to the open area and freshness of the air.

And then we moved on to the second half of the building which was far more creepy than the previous part. This was the part where almost all wooden puppets and human puppets were kept. Now, there is something about human dolls that I don't like. If you make a human doll and you fail in making it resemble the real human's face, basically the doll will look weirdly painted and somehow creepy. But if you succeed in making a human doll that represents a human face perfectly, it'll result in a very creepy and lively doll face. Which to me, is more creepy than weirdly painted doll faces. In this area of building, all the puppets were masterly painted and their eyes looked very much alive. There were these two crowds of puppets organized neatly as if they were posing for a group picture. I couldn't look at the puppets straightly in the eyes. They were staring, some were grinning widely and some had angry faces on them. Whichever it was, the eyes were very much alive I felt like the room wasn't empty. The whole trip, there was only two visitors, me and Andy. And yet we felt like we were being stared at the whole time and the room was full of unseen creatures. We finished the tour as quickly as we could and got out happily.

Then we went to Museum Bank Mandiri. It was a museum for the old bank and inside we saw lots of (very) conventional machineries. We saw the BIG old typewriter and we saw machines they once used to print the book. We also got to see their general ledger in one BIG book like the Book of Shadows used in Charmed TV series. The building was more like a beautiful old abbey (or at least, a Catholic church) with a small yard in the middle of the building. You can't hear the streets' noise when you're inside so it felt peaceful and quiet. We decided that our main interests in this tour wasn't the machineries so we headed for the way out. In our way out, we saw some guys sitting at some desks doing some things we didn't know about. But what was weird was the fact that these guys weren't moving and they were sitting so stiffly in their seats. Intrigued, we came over and voila! They weren't human after all. :) They were statues, or whatever you call them. Perhaps they're sculpted out of wax, I don't know. We found two figures in a room, one was doing a chore and one was sitting alone at an empty table and we thought they looked like our lecturer and our friend's father. 

On our next destination, we would be visiting National Museum and seriously, there was where the fun began! 

[Coming up: National Museum tour and how we were successfully mistaken as foreigners by local schoolboys and some French guys]

Hurt people hurt people.

A lot of people claim they know a lot about being hurt. At different points in life, everyone was hurt. Badly. Lightly. Accidentally. Intentionally. Whichever it is, it doesn't lessen the fact that you indeed, are hurt. Now, as I can't speak for everybody else, I'm going to talk about my hurt.

I didn't have a happy childhood. That's too bad, because you can't have your childhood twice. You can keep the girl/boy in you alive but you can't be a kid twice. There was only one time in your life when you could think of nothing except play. There was only one time in your life when the hardest decision you had to make was to choose which crayon to use. There was only one time in your life when your father could lift you up, let you sit on his shoulder and carry you around so effortlessly. So, if your childhood sucked, you're pretty much fucked up.

Talking about unhappy childhood, there are hundreds of reasons. In fact, all teenagers would claim their lives suck. I agree. Teenage years are pains in the ass. You are confused, you hate your parents, you love your friends more than anybody. That is if you had any friends. And when you don't, you blame on your weight (for girls) or your nerd side (on boys). Now I'm not saying that I'm an expert in this, but I've been there. An angry teenager. A very sad and depressed one.

But my hurt was not only about my vengeful teenage years. It was not only about hating myself because I was fat or stupid. My hurt comes from my strong belief of my worth. I used to believe, that I wasn't worth anything. I used to believe that I was so lowly created that no one would even miss me had I vanished from the face of the Earth. I was so depressed and hurt, I almost believed I was invincible. But what made the difference was when I realized that I wasn't.

My hurt came from my parents' abuse. Now, you might say at this point, 'Oh so this is what it's all about. The same old abuse story again.' Let me tell you what. It's never going to be an old story. It's so commonly heard, you thought it's no big deal. It's always a big deal, it's always going to be something I would talk about and fight against. It's part of me, the only part I wished I could change and I wished I'd never change. It's the part that crushed me but it's also the part that strengthens me. Am I thankful for that? Not really. A part of me still longs for the happy childhood I didn't get to experience. A part of me longs for the happiness of a young girl who could care less about the world. But another part of me knows it so well that I wouldn't be the young woman I am today had I been that happy girl.

My mother used to make me choose what I prefer to have her hit me with. I usually went for the belt. At other times, she wouldn't even let me choose but she'd let me have some taste in each and every tools she had. She sometimes locked me in the bathroom, without towel or anything, and I would sit in the corner of the bathroom, naked and freezing. Or at other times, she would wait until I got out of the bathroom then hit me on bare flesh. She sometimes would hit me so badly I had bruises all over my body. And she would literally chase me around if I ran away from her. I remember locking up my door terrified. Not terrified because she was out there with tools ready to hit me, but I was terrified at the fact she might be able to knock down the door and get me. I still have nightmares until now. Mostly they're about the feeling of being so helpless and scared. And after the nightmares, I would slightly return to that little terrified girl who was so helpless and... sad.

Again, perhaps what I had wasn't as bad as some others had to experience. Some might undergo much more terrible abuse. It doesn't make mine less abusive, or less damaging, though. It's all the same. Once a fist was raised to your little face, you're in the circle.

Now, I am an accomplished young woman. There were times I was crushed so badly I thought I would just die. But I didn't die. There were times I thought my days were extremely horrible I didn't even want to go through another one. But I did go through another day. There were times I hated my parents so much I thought I'd never forgive myself until the day I die. But I did forgive them. I've conquered most of my painful past, even though the nightmares are still haunting me. I am damaged, but I survived. I was severely beaten but I healed. I lost a lot of pieces of me but I glued what I could find. I am pretty much okay, maybe much more okay than some other 21-year-olds who had a happy childhood. So why worried about abused children? We don't need to help them. They'll survive.

No. They will not. Even if they will, it's one case out of a million. And for the rest 999,999 cases, they would be trapped in the endless circle of hurting. They were hurt so much, they thought the only way to relieve some of the pain is by hurting other people. They knew that's the only way to do so. They hurt people, so their pain becomes less hurting. Hurt people hurt people. And it'll go as a cycle. Your parents hurt you, you hurt your kids and your kids would hurt your grandchildren and so on. And the world is really going to be fucked up.

I watched Bill Cosby's speech today. He said, 'If you hit your children, you'll end up really abusing them. You would never be able to restore the wound or undo the pain." Think twice before you raise your fists to your children's face. Look at them in their eyes, does anything they do really deserve a punch at their little faces? The answer is NO. It's always no. And if the answer's yes, then you should pack your things and leave the house. You shouldn't be a parent at all. 

Children should not be terrified of their own parents. Parents are supposed to be the most comforting place to go to. We should feel the safest when we lie our heads upon their chests. We should be able to expect a hug whenever we got hurt or fell down. We should not be terrified to expect a kiss whenever we succeeded in school. We should be able to go home and cry after a bad day in school without having to worry whether or not they would hit us for crying. It shouldn't hurt to be a child. You might already know all about this, but you have no idea how this feels if you hadn't experienced it yourself.

Abusing your children and hope they'll be strong enough to be an accomplished person later is never right. You have to raise your children right. You have to listen to what they've got to say. They are talking to you. They are trying to tell you something. And you have to listen to them because you are their parents. You could never, never be able to imagine how much pain they have to go through. You can lose the hatred, you can lose the bruises but the nightmares, they never go away. And trust me when I say it lasts a lifetime. It really is.

Pain and what it is all about.

People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit. Love hurts. Feelings are disturbing. People are taught that pain is evil and dangerous. How can they deal with love if they’re afraid to feel? Pain is meant to wake us up. People try to hide their pain. But they’re wrong. Pain is something to carry, like a radio. You feel your strength in the experience of pain. It’s all in how you carry it. That’s what matters. Pain is a feeling. Your feelings are a part of you. Your own reality. If you feel ashamed of them, and hide them, you’re letting society destroy your reality. You should stand up for your right to feel your pain.

Serious matter not seriously taken.

My cousin was kidnapped three days ago, along with his other friend. 

This isn't the breaking news. Because he has returned, safe and sound. He was kidnapped, dragged into a car, beaten up and robbed. His cellphone and wallet were gone. Not heavy beating, though, so it was okay. It was quite a big deal, but not huge. When I heard the news, I was a bit surprised but it was not a crisis enough for me to spend my whole day worrying about. So I continued my day, knowing my cousin is now safe and it was probably a regular case of robbery and he was only mugged.

Today, my cousin came to my house. With my uncle and aunt, and some other relatives. I listened to the stories. My uncle told me how my cousin (and his friend) was cornered and dragged into a car. My cousin added how he was beaten (not very badly) and how his friend was very badly beaten. Then my uncle continued the story by expressing his suspicion of my cousin's friend's involvement in the kidnapping. Apparently, my uncle thinks that the other boy, the one who was kidnapped with my cousin, might be involved in the kidnapping plan. I was listening until I realized a big part of the story was missing.

Where the hell is the other boy right now?

I blurted out the question with uneasy feeling swirling in my stomach. The answer turned out to be the truth I don't want to hear. The other boy was nowhere to be found yet. He hasn't returned, and no one knows where he is right now. No one knows whether he's still alive, or not. Now, this is the breaking news. This has shaken me greatly, far greater than the news of my cousin being kidnapped.

So has anyone told the police yet?

Guess what. No, no one has. No one has told the police yet because my cousin has returned safely. I was perplexed. I couldn't think straight. I feel, almost disgustedly, sick. I mean, they were sitting in front of me, guiltless faces with happy smiles, telling how fortunate my cousin is compared to his friend. How in the world can someone do that? The other boy, the other boy, has not returned!

I tried to calm myself as best as I could when my uncle explained the reasons behind his decision of not calling the police. He said that he had a theory. A theory. He suspected that this other boy might be the part of the kidnapping plan and he was pulling the act in order to rob my cousin. So my cousin is the victim. And therefore, my uncle felt no obligation to worry about the boy. He tried to phone the boy and said there was someone picking up the phone, but no one spoke. He then said that it confirmed his theory, that the boy must be terrified of him finding out about his fake kidnapping act.

Did it ever occur to the narrow-minded selfish brain of my uncle that the reason why no one spoke at the phone was because it might be the kidnappers who picked up the call?

No, it apparently didn't. It never has. I spent the next 30 minutes explaining, frantically, about the importance of telling the police. I tried my best to point out that the theory has no solid base and we should not hold on to it. We could be doing the biggest mistake in our lives by not telling the police. We don't know if the boy has returned yet and we don't know how his condition is right now. The boy, his father has passed away and his mother isn't in Indonesia. She's in Taiwan, working for her son's education. I can only imagine how she would feel if she heard something has happened to her son, let alone if we must tell her a really bad news. Let's say, his death.

I can't imagine how someone could come up with a decision like my uncle did. I just don't get it. I wouldn't hesitate, not even one second, calling up the police the minute my son returned from the kidnapping to explain that the other boy hasn't returned yet. I wouldn't hesitate reporting up right away that the other boy might still be in danger and the police should look for him. I would call up his mother to inform the news and tell her that I had reported it to the police and she shouldn't worry and I'd keep her updated. The boy is only a boy and he's out there in danger. Helping him, acting as his parent because his mother isn't here, is what it's all about. It's about responsibility of an adult, to protect a teenager who might be in danger. Regardless whether the teenager is taking drugs or not. A matter of life-and-death should be treated as a priority, regardless what consequences it might yield. Especially if the so-called consequence is only about your fear of your son being too exhausted to be questioned.

It really isn't only a matter of life-and-death. It really is about helping other people. What should be done is very clear and it's out of question. It's out of discussion.

I'm right. And my uncle is so wrong.

You are not the one in the know. I am.

You don't get to claim you know me until I claim that you do.

Yesterday I had a quick chat with my father while I was having my dinner. I haven't done this in a while, probably for almost a month or two. So we talked and somehow it carried on to a point where I discussed a possibility of me working part-time in an education institution. I teach English, at a local tutoring school, and I thought expanding my experience in Wall Street Institute might be a good idea. I like the excitement of trying something new and I want to know what I can get from Wall Street. I didn't really tell my dad about that. I only told him about the possibility of me getting a part-time job there since I've gotten to know the HR manager quite well and she apparently liked me enough to personally tell me to submit an application. How many times you get to have an HR manager telling you to submit your CV directly to her email? Not so often. 

So when I told my dad, his reaction was reasonable. It wasn't something unexpected. He spoke to me wisely and ever so gently, 'Teaching is a hobby. It's good, enjoy it while it lasts.'

Problem is: It's NOT only a hobby. I enjoy it. Let's just say, even though I know I still have a lot of things to improve, I enjoy teaching and I never treat it as a hobby only. In fact, I've been considering whether to pursue a career in teaching. Now, I told this to my dad. With less bluntness but firm determination, I told him that teaching was never only a hobby to me. He eyed me cautiously, almost furiously, and said, "I know who you are. You don't want to teach. You want to earn big money."

Strike one.

I then said, "No, I never want to earn big money. Money has never been my sole intention in life. It's too shallow for me." And he made a quick and triumphant reply, "Yes, you do! My advice is for you to work in a multinational company. I've arranged some access for you to get into some good companies. You're my daughter. I know you so well. Money is your thing."

Strike two.

Money is NOT my thing. People is my thing. I interact with people and I find bliss in doing so. I learn from people and I never go tired from doing so. I make friends with people and I never regret doing so. I dream of doing great things that involve people, not money. Never money. I told my dad quietly, "Money is not my thing. If you think it is, you don't know me. You don't know me at all. I don't want to work in a multinational company." I didn't mean to sound ungrateful because my dad didn't do anything wrong. He was being a very responsible father, setting up a nice and comforting future for his daughter. He didn't do anything wrong. He just didn't do the right thing. Of course I didn't tell him that. So he said, once again, "Teaching is not a future! I want you to settle nicely in the future, buy a house and live if not a rich life, a financially secured one. Don't tell me that I do not know you. Even though we don't talk much, I monitor you. I know you. You are ambitious and you like money."

Strike three. And that's all I need to silence myself.

It got into a point where it surpassed any angry phase and arrived at a helpless state. He was unbelievable. Three times he claimed he knew me but in fact, he didn't at all. It was because of the lack of communication between us and plus, the neglect and psychological abuse ever since I was still little. Monitor, my ass. He didn't monitor me. He rarely spent time with the family, he was so overwrought in his work. Not that it was bad, I know he did for the family. But it's the trade-off. It results in less family time and more computer-and-office time. I gave him chance, to get to know me. I gave him chance to be close to me. But whenever I did, he chose gambling and work over me.

He thought he knew me just by looking at me but hey, I am never an open book in my family. They see what they want to see. They think I am who I am right now because of what they did to me. Because of their teachings and their successful attempts in raising me. It was true, in a way. I am who I am right now because of what they did to me. But not exactly like what they have in mind. I am who I am right now because they failed at their each and every so-called attempt of raising me. The only thing that they did was feed me and provide me with clothes. So he was right, it was because of them I am like this. And he was wrong, he didn't know me at all. Even I don't know me that well. How could he possibly be?

How do you convince a very orthodox parent (or parents) who thinks he knows everything about his first daughter while in fact, everything he thinks he knows about me is wrong. I never make money as my sole ambition. I am not even an ambitious person. I don't do ambitions. I don't run for myself. And he never gets that. So how can he claim he know me well? How do you tell him that what he believes is wrong, without crushing him?

What I had in my life once crushed me to pieces. The pieces were scattered and it takes a long time to find them and put them back together. I'm not sure I've found all the pieces. Sometimes I put the pieces I found in wrong places, then I had to go over and figure out where it actually belongs. Most of the times, I wonder where the remaining missing pieces are and try to look for them after identifying them. Even I don't know what and where to look. Even I haven't put myself back together. I am still incomplete so how can he be damn sure he knows me?

You don't get to claim you know me until I claim that you do.

I see things in grey.

I know that you don't understand me. I don't understand me.

I am the kind of person who is happy for someone's happiness. I am the kind of person who hates when I see someone's happy. I want to serve the humanity. I want to teach children. I want to work for homeless people. I want to earn a lot of money. I want to show people what I'm good at. I am ambitious. I am caring. I am dark and mysterious. I like to talk about me. I don't like to talk about me. I want people say I'm good. I don't want them to know I'm good. I don't talk about what I feel. I want someone to listen to what I feel. I want to give up all I have for someone who needs me and only wants me. I don't want to give up my all for anyone. I hate my parents. I am afraid of making them unhappy. I am the most selfish girl in my family. I am the most selfless girl among my friends. I am ugly. I am beautiful. I don't want to listen to people's problems. I want to be the one they talk to. I want to help people. I know what I want. I am afraid of what I want. I want to be hopeful. I am afraid of being disappointed.

You are not killing me. I am killing me. I don't understand me. 

Unbelievably Unbelievable

“There may be some doubt as to who are the best people to have children, but there can be no doubt that parents are the worst.”


You think somehow along the way, you have made peace with them,
which was something you should do before you made peace with yourself,
which was something that remains the hardest to do.

You think somehow along the way, you have grown to understand one another,
which was something you once thought was impossible,
which was something you once wouldn't even think to try.

You think somehow along the way, you have succeeded to make them proud,
which was something you once used to long for,
which was something you once painstakingly wished for.

You think somehow along the way, you have been treated as a person,
which was something everyone would love to be treated as,
which was something better than to be treated as a schmuck,
or worse, to have been made you feel like one.

You think somehow along the way, you have forgotten the past pain,
which was something that haunts you all the way,
which was something that shadows every corner of your life.

You think somehow along the way, you have finally found your parents,
which was something you tend to keep for the rest of your life,
which was when you realized that you may be wrong all this time.

Maybe all this time along the way, you thought wrong.
Maybe all this time, you were just the same.
Maybe all this time, you haven't gotten anywhere.

A Field Guide to Scars

A very heart-warming story I found.
---

My wife has a scar under her chin. It has been there since childhood, and is not the result of a single incident, but rather of multiple encounters with the driveway, the tree limb, the hockey stick, and any other hard object in the vicinity. When she has had quite enough guff, thank you very much, she leads with that chin, and the scar becomes visible. I believe this to constitute truth in advertising, a visual warning, similar to a tiger's growl, signifying that your continued existence is only on her sufferance.

I love this scar. It proclaims that she is not a girly-girl, and demands respect for doing foolish things in foolish ways and surviving, bloodied perhaps, but unbowed.

My wife has a scar on her belly. It has been there since the birth of our third son, who was so wrapped up in his umbilical cord that he was choking himself, an entirely characteristic manner of behavior we were to learn as he matured. After 2 "routine" vaginal deliveries of 9 pounders, though how the word "routine" could possibly be assigned to this task is beyond me, we were cocky, so sure that we had everything well in hand.

And then his heart rate started to drop. It came back up in a few seconds, but it went down again with each contraction, and starting coming back to baseline more and more slowly. Finally, it did not come back up. I stood watching a line on a graph revealing my child's mortal peril. The L&D staff hurried about their tasks with urgency and professional calm, preparing her for what was necessary. I need to be strong I told myself, she needs me to be calm and supportive. I looked in her eyes and started to stammer out those platitudes appropriate to the situation. I could see my fear reflected back to me, but she smiled, squeezed my hand and told me that this is what she deserved for marrying a man a foot taller and 100 pounds heavier. We laughed far harder than this weak jest merited.

I love this scar. It speaks to me of that special courage of women, and of the particular courage of one woman. It was narrow and pink at first, but gradually faded to a shade just a bit lighter than her natural skin tone. Originally, there was a zone of numbness around it, about an inch wide, but as time went on, that zone narrowed, and now, only the scar itself is still insensitive. Still, I kiss it anytime I am in the vicinity, as it speaks to me of her strength, and what a mother undertakes for her children.

My wife has scars and bruises all over her legs. She is the mother of three boys, and with that comes football, baseball, soccer, and Boy Scouts. She was a swimmer herself, and could not have cared less about these kinds of things, but she made herself into quite the coach as necessity required.

I love these scars too. Our joke has been that should I piss her off enough, she could have me sent to prison for wife abuse simply by showing the cops her legs.

My wife has a scar on her chest, where her right breast used to be. She was too young and too healthy to have breast cancer, but apparently the breast cancer was unaware of these prerequisites, and attacked her anyway. She has always had beautiful breasts, and I a committed breast man. I remember sitting there in the doctor's office thinking that I was going to smash the face of this quack for frightening her (me?) so much with this rubbish. I remember how helpless I felt. I remember how calm she was, so matter of fact, until she came home from the hospital, and we saw the wound together for the first time.

I love this scar more than all the others put together. She didn't believe that then, and I suspect that she doesn't believe it now, but it is true. She was sure that I would be repulsed, that she was not just scarred, but mutilated. Nevertheless, I have a passionate love for this scar. That scar meant that she lived. Every kiss, every caress, every act of love, every fuck since then has been because of that scar. The cosmetic repair after wards is fine, but the scar saved her life. That scar gave us the past 15 years, the boat that we always wanted to retire to, the endless days of sailing the Caribbean, the fun of watching our boys match wits with their boys.

My wife has a scar on the front wall of her heart. I do not love this scar. This scar is going to kill her, and quite soon as it happens. She never did trust me to plan and pack for any of our trips, so she will go ahead to prepare a place for us. Then the only scars will be mine.