I still have the scar. It's like
she signed my body, like
ochre handprints on the
stone wall. They reach
across the void of healing,
of seven months of work,
they speak for her. 'I was
here. I was here and I
suffered.' And I reach back,
I speak back. "You still are.
You still are and I
love you." I care for her
like she refused to let
anybody do then. I place
my hand on her fading
mark. She whispers
back, "I'm sorry." I
frame the scar between
my fingers. "You survived.
There is nothing to forgive."
