Memento of Korea

I visit the homes of well-traveled friends, marveling at the mementos they have brought back with them.  Cultural artifacts they have gathered adorn their walls, reminding them of fond times they have spent in those places.

Interspersed among their mementos are snapshots or portraits of their families.

My walls, however, are bare.

I have been estranged, more or less, from my adoptive family since I was 17.  I have done some traveling myself, and never found anything worthy of memories to hang on my walls.  I have always been on the move and the transient nature of my existence does not give me the freedom to scar a wall with the commitment of a nail.

The only thing scarred, it seems, is me.

(figuratively and literally)

I forget about my scar, hidden as it is.

The scar is the size of a quarter, mottled like a banana chip, its texture smooth in places, dimpled in others.  Dimpled where the stitches entered and exited.  What trauma caused this?

I wish my scar could talk.

Maybe my scar could tell me why i have always, always been solemn
Maybe my scar could tell me my name, who I am.

I love my scar.

It’s all that I came to America with.

My memento of Korea.

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