As a child, I remember noticing a distinct scar on my mother’s upper arm—high near the shoulder. It looked like a ring of small indentations encircling a deeper, central mark. I couldn’t tell you why it caught my attention back then; that part’s lost to time. I just remember that it was there. But, like many things from childhood, the memory faded.
Of course, I never truly forgot the scar itself—it’s still right where it’s always been—but I did forget the curiosity it once stirred in me. Maybe I asked her about it once and she explained. If she did, that answer disappeared with the rest.
Then, one summer a few years ago, I helped an elderly woman off a train. And there it was again—the same scar, in the exact same spot as my mother’s.
