Wounds

I remember so many scrapes on my knees as a child. I still have the scars though they have faded.  Tripping over the tree roots on the playground while playing chase was usually the cause.  The above the knee dresses I wore as a school requirement was no barrier between adolescent skin and dirty uneven ground.  And I cried almost every time.  The first bath was so painful as my mother would submerge the wound in hot water until she could lightly wash it with soap.  Then sleeping under the cotton sheets on sticky Florida nights would sometimes cause the two to bond into one.  But after a few days, I could run again on the playground and wait for the next one to tag me.  After a few weeks, I didn't remember the incident in detail but witnessed the evidence of fresh skin regenerating as the scab turned to a black brown bark on my limb shrinking until it finally fell off.  After a few months, my skin was smooth once again and only a little brown stain of a scar remained.

Maybe love is like that.  Maybe love is your skin and the hurt is the wound.  Maybe over time, you forget your tears, the pain, the trouble walking and sleeping, and maybe one day you wake up and barely remember the injury.  And maybe all you see is the small discoloration that still remains but see that love does regenerate over and over again, even on top of old wounds, until you die.