A Piedmont Porchlight Story

The Coffee Cup was crowded enough that morning folks were waiting for booths to open up. Curtis Pope was halfway through his second biscuit. I was halfway through my second cup of coffee. Hattie was halfway through telling somebody to quit putting jelly on scrambled eggs.

“I don’t care if you like it, it’s still just wrong.”

The whole restaurant laughed. She came over and topped off our coffee. As she reached across the table, I noticed a little white scar across the back of her hand.

“What happened there?”

She looked down and smiled. “Oh, that? Hot biscuit pan.”

“When?”

“Nineteen eighty-six.”

Curtis blinked. “You remember the year?”

“I remember the biscuits.”

That got another laugh. I pointed at the scar. “Don’t bother you anymore?”

“No. It just reminds me to use potholders.”

Curtis held up one finger. “I’ve got one.”

He pointed to a thin white line just under his chin. “Barber school.”

“What happened?”

“First fellow I ever shaved.”

“You cut him?”

“No.”

“He cut me.”

Hattie laughed so hard she had to grab the back of the booth. “How’d he manage that?”

“He sneezed.”

I nearly spit coffee. “You ain’t serious.”

“I surely am. Scared me worse than it did him.”

I looked at my own hands. They don’t look much like they did when I was twenty. The backs are spotted. The knuckles are a little bigger. There’s a little scar across my thumb. Another one on my forearm.

Curtis noticed. “What about that one?”

I rubbed my thumb. “Pocketknife.”

“Were you whittlin’?”

“No. I was proving I wasn’t smart enough to own one yet.”

Hattie nodded. “Most scars start with confidence.”

“That’s the truth.”

Funny thing about scars. Children think they’re trophies. Teenagers think they’re embarrassing. By the time you get to my age, they’re bookmarks. Each one opens to a different chapter.

The scar on your knee, that’s the bicycle.

The one on your finger, that’s the time you tried to open a paint can with a screwdriver.

The one by your eyebrow… well… That story usually gets better every time you tell it.

About then Earl Johnson wandered in.

Hattie looked at his forehead. “Earl.”

“What?”

“You still got that scar from walkin’ into the screen door?”

Earl rubbed his forehead. “I was in a hurry.”

Curtis grinned. “The screen door wasn’t.”

The whole Coffee Cup erupted. Earl just laughed. “You know, I’d appreciate it if y’all would forget that.”

Hattie smiled. “We tried. But every time we see your forehead, it remembers for us.”

Even Earl had to laugh at that. After a while the room settled down again. I looked around the Coffee Cup. Everybody in there had a scar somewhere. Some you could see. Some you couldn’t.

The funny thing is, the ones you can see usually quit hurting first. It’s the invisible ones, the ones left by people you’ve loved, the ones left by words you wish you’d never said, the ones left by empty chairs. Those are the ones that take their sweet time.

Hattie picked up the coffee pot. She stood there for just a second. “You know what I’ve learned?”

“What?”

She smiled. “If a scar can tell a story, it means the story didn’t end there.”

Nobody said a word. Outside, the breeze stirred the flags along Centre Avenue. Somewhere in the distance, the noon whistle blew. I looked down at my old hands again. Funny thing about getting older. You quit wishing for smooth skin. You become thankful for healing.

Because every scar, whether folks can see it or not, is proof that life knocked on your door, and you answered it.