Everyone loves a good scar story.
We all have at least one.
I have six.
Little reminders that have faded over time of my vanity, immaturity and close calls...
In order in which they were received:
1. Inside left leg – I had a benign tumor removed when I was four years old and had to wear a full leg cast for eight weeks. The scar is roughly six inches long and I have only ever been comfortable with my husband touching it. 
2. Left hand – an inch long scar from hitting a mirror in an elevator of our apartment complex upon having an argument with my father. I NEVER thought the mirror would shatter into a million pieces. Nice reminder of my teenage angst, huh? The really sad part is I don’t even remember what the fight was about.
3. Right leg, just below my knee – a mess of a scar that thankfully only shows up when I tan from a motorbike accident that I was in on my birthday in 1985 with my dear friend Sophie. I was the passenger and alcohol was involved.
4. Center of my forehead – a quarter inch horizontal scar from a pea-sized calcium deposit I had removed.
5. Right heel – a three incher from a “pump bump” (heel spur) I had removed in college. What woman doesn't want to wear heels from time to time?
6. Right breast – a half inch long reminder that a lump I found could have been a lot worse.
I have other scars too, the ones that were self inflicted; ear ring holes (at one point I had four, now only two remain) and three very meaningful tattoos that I don't regret getting even for one second.
And then there are the scars you can't see, the ones on my heart made by the losses in my life. The ones full of memories and love and that will never fade away.
This post is for Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop: Prompt 1.) Scarred. 
