Mysterious Bruises
I’ve been pondering today about bruises. I mean actual, physical bruises—nothing subjective. Why is it when I bang my leg on a table, I will note out loud, “That’s going to leave a mark.” But later, when the mark has definitely been left, I can no longer remember how I got it? I have scars from my youth that I am no longer sure about. I know there are stories behind these pale, pencil-thin marks that I once told, but they are lost to me now. Time has pushed them aside to make way for newer memories. I’m only just at the beginning of my thirties, so how many more memories will be murdered as time goes by? I spoke with an older woman on a train ride once in my eleventh year. She told me then that vivid memories have come flooding back to her as she has aged. I didn’t understand it then, but now I long for that clarity.
