She hates it. Still. Thick and purple, two years on. Where they went in. Sliced away the bulk of her ovary.
I don’t mind the scar. I’d kiss it, if she let me.
With magical thinking I’d mend, tracing with my finger. Lave a kiss across its length. Received in equal parts, aspersion by infusion. That I might find some inward grace, and press it through my lips into her womb, her heart, her brow.
She wears the scar. We dress the wound together. Nursing pain. Relearning how to live. Without hope. Gifted time instead. Sleepless nights, plaintive wails, half-dreamt feedings, exchanged for stillborn quiet. Silence. Free lives, serene now.
“It’s not too late for you,” she reminds. “To find someone else.”
“The scar is ours,” I say. “It was too late for me when we met.”
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Mark DiFruscio is currently pursuing my PhD at Oklahoma State University. He received his MFA in Film Production from the University of Southern California and an MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State University.
Photo: Kae Sable