Scars

On my right arm I have an indentation a little smaller than a pencil eraser. When I went to Seattle for the first time at the age of 8, I walked through Pikes Place Market close behind my cousins and felt a sharp, bee sting-like pain. A stooped woman with thinning white hair, gnarled hands, enormous yellowing glasses and a pink cardigan was on my right, arm outstretched and casually talking to her friend while she accidentally burned my arm in the crowded place. My family scooped ice from around the smelly fish to put on the burn. Even after the ice melted, my hands still smelled like fish. I'm amazed at how vivid this memory still is to me today, but I see now how it demands memorability through the many senses it invokes as well as the visible talisman of the scar.