In a very close moment,
I touched the striations near her waist
for the first time and she began to cry.
The marks, from the birth of her son.

She’d given him up before we met.
She had been in some trouble,
and made difficult decisions
that were still exacting a price
she couldn’t stop paying for.

To her, the lines were resentful,
and would never let her forget
the only physical reminder she had left.

In my youth I couldn’t imagine
the true depth of the wounds,
the ones beneath the surface,
but they were our companion most days.

The best I could do, and I certainly tried,
was to help dress the open lacerations
when they began to bleed on us.