I picked up your tiny hand,

your smaller than rain hand, and

noticed a deep scar on your little finger.

The injury causing it curled your

finger like a raven's claw, but I'm

not sure it's possible for you to fly away.


I started to ask "how did it happen" but

realized I meant the why of it, the where and

who of it and maybe those stories are

better left shared until after the

flush of our new romance.


If you look closely under my chin, I have a

tiny scar, too. In second grade, Leonard Clark

tried to pick me up, but even then I was

difficult to hold, and I'm sure I outweighed

him by twenty pounds.


With an unceremonious plop, he

dropped me on the concrete sidewalk

outside Mrs. Holcolm's classroom.

My chin bled, I cried, and, of course, Leonard

had to be my first boyfriend. Maybe that's

where I began my attraction to men who

would hurt me. My father's like that, and

God was, too.


But now I'm getting into the why of it, the

who, what, where of it, and we'll save

those stories for another day. Suffice it

to say I'm happy with the good man I

found and now when I'm looking for

love to multiply my love to augment my

love I'm not looking for men or pain.



Physical scars, psychic scars. It's possible to love more than one person, but is it practical?