Scars

Eitan’s hair grows like a Chia Pet. I’ve thought of asking his barber for a punch card with the tenth haircut free. We’re frequent customers. Today he got a buzz cut. He was deliriously happy. But as we were leaving I noticed he had a nick on the top of his head, like the shaver burrowed in just a bit too much. When I pointed it out, the barber blamed Eitan’s head. He was right. Eitan had stitches at the top of his head when he was four. And all along this little scar has been there hidden away.

In my Top 40 house, we’ve been hearing a lot of Stitches by Shawn Mendez lately. It is a bizarre little song rhyming “stitches” with “kisses” but it’s got a good beat and feels appropriately teenage angst-y so it’s a win around here. I one up their Stitches with Train’s song Bruises and we’re really a pretty beat up bunch.

I feel like scars have been exposed. Yesterday I jumped into a cab in Yerushalayim because it was too wary-ing to wonder if the next person I passed by was going to stab me. And then it’s equally weary-ing to berate myself for the fear. The cab was quiet. In a news-obsessed country at a time of war, the radios are on everywhere all the time. But not my cab driver. He had had enough. By 10 am, he had turned his radio off. He told me he believes in fate. Fate was there, he told me, 20 years ago when he was near a bomb that detonated in the city. He was close enough to have his clothes ripped off his body but not a scratch on him. No scars.

Some scars are hidden and you find them after years. Some you never find. But they are most certainly there.

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