Under Construction

On my leg is a scar, a long line traversing my left knee down on to my calf; I fought barbed wire once and lost. On my arm is another scar, on my foot another. A small mark on my hand reminds me of a childhood in Australia, brown freckles on my chest remind me of a day of too much Spring sun.

The years pass, my body endures them. For years, I would be upset by the change Life wrought on my skin, the purity it destroyed. But where once was smooth skin and a child's blank slate, now is experience, a story painted by my body's efforts to heal, to compensate, to carry on. Where once was soft clay now is a hardened shell, a thicker skin more able to handle what challenges are still to come.

It was such a week. Where everyone around me ran into roadblocks and off of ravines. Where not a single phone call carried good news, and every morning was a short blissful second of ignorance before Reality made itself known.

So that when I stood in the basking sunshine on the loud corner of Bowery and Houston, and heard a voice on the phone say that after years of longing, anguish, and fear, they had at last heard the heartbeat of New Life, it was the lightest my breath had been all week.