“Scars are tattoos with better stories.”

He took my hands gently, a serious tone in his voice. Quietly his eyes pleaded with mine as he gazed first at me, then back to my hands and asked, “What happened?”

I looked down at the same hands that I have always seen, noticing something else.

Scars dot my flesh, some small and faded, others less easily hidden.

I chuckled, pleased at his concern.

I smiled and said:

Every one of my scars was hard won, not suffered. The scars prove that I have lived my life, and each has a tale.

So as my most recent scrape heals I look at the wound and smile. Another scar, another story.