A Scab

I pulled a scab away today. Picked at it for a while, then it came right off. It was fairly big and had definitely been there a while--not long enough to heal and grow back into healthy skin, but long enough to be bumpy, to be cumbersome and to draw my attention every time I sat down to think. It had been there long enough that I had come to accept it as part of my leg. When I pulled the Scab off, it hurt. It hurt because it was skin--scarred skin--ripping from myself. It hurt because parts of me were exposed to the fresh air that dont usually breathe. But, most of all, it hurt because I remembered where and when I got that scab. I remembered how much fun it was, how helpful, how nice. I remember laughing and crying, playing and trying. It wasnt until the end that we bumped into one another, giving rise to the makings of a Scab for both of us. I am not sure whose is bigger, but in any case . . . Wasnt till the end that the progenitor--the event (which was in the making all along)--of the scar appeared. I knew when I picked that scar that it would eventually scar and then slowly fade. I would see it on occassion, but the memory of how it got there and the story, and its experiences, would also fade. Despite the pain, that makes me sad. I wish a generally good experience like the one that preceded the Scab could be inscribed on my body in a healthier, more permanent way. I wish it didnt have to end with blood and sting. But, here we are--the scab is in my hand--what can we do now? I pulled a scab away today; it hurts like hell.