Scratches

To count your scratches would be to count the memories of my childhood.

Like the particuarly long one set to the right, from when I was learning to make dinner and cut my thumb.

Or the long set blue mark, when I was so frustrated with math that I scribbled it all out and the ink bled through.

The laughter that runs through every crack, when my drunken uncle slammed his beer down all the while roaring with elation.

What about the coldness that settles over the house, but you in specific felt the ice when dad passed.

The disuse that followed as we splintered apart at every seam.

Weeks, months, years later you still sit even with all your scratches, while mine start to match.