Another holiday come and gone, yet I remain,

Bearing several new scars to add to my collection.

And quite a collection it is, nurtured over an entire lifetime

Much like a curio cabinet filled with cherished collectables

Each scar clearly identifiable, unique in its own right,

it’s length, it’s width, it’s thickness, some whose colors have faded,

Dimmed by the passage of days but never entirely forgotten.

Others red and angry, shout of recent acquisition.

I thought I could point to each and recount the story of it creation,

Including the cast of characters present and the weapon used.

It seems they should be labeled, in small neat penmanship,

On carefully folded white cards, like mother’s teacups.

My curiosity as to the evolution of the person in the mirror,

Has prompted this personal archeological dig.

Through these layers of ancient injuries and insults,

Now obscured by the sediment of a lifetime’s worth of living.

Each layer excavated, reveling secrets from another age,

This jagged reminder of the best friend that moved without a word.

That one the public humiliation at the hands of my church group.

Is that where my self confidence dissolved, where the fear was planted?

The discovery of so many missing pieces leaves me to wonder.

Where do they fit, what part did each play in the creation

Of the person I came to be.

Does an answer lie within these remembered tears, or simply another scar?