I have a scar. It is low, beneath my belly, about six inches long. It’s my only scar, a reminder of my only trip to the hospital, my only surgery. It is still strange to touch it, to feel its knotted roughness beneath my fingertips, feel the skin prickle with sensitivity. Stranger still to see it, an unfamiliar smile from pointing from hip to hip.
A smile. I never really think of it that way, but I suppose it is one way to do so. A permanent smile in my flesh, made by the arrival of my daughter.