Ropes

A Story by Katie Miller

A short story about a woman's scar that sparked inspiration and symbolism.

She brushed her index and middle fingers along her heavily elevated embossed scar on her lower right arm, inadvertently without thought. The persistence of her motion seemed peculiar and useless, a redundant discarding of energy. She was covered in dark blankets of layers as if she wanted to be hidden. Bangs concealed her hollow eyes, and a dense hat protected her ears as if she constantly felt apprehensive. Her murky attire portrayed trepidation and anxiety, and I could effortlessly distinguish the concerned faces surrounding us. She settled close to me in the pew as if I was at the service accompanying her. Contrary to her obscure and uncertain representation, I sensed her radiant buoyancy and self-reliance like a blanket of amity. This woman felt her scar without thought, like a reminder to her soul. A token to live headfirst and remain unshackled and freed from life’s calamities. The human body is an ever-growing and thick rope, capturing existence and nourishing the soul. A rope persistently stretching, with loose threads and innumerable knots. Knots crowded with disfigurements, reminiscences, trepidations and ambitions. She caressed her scar without consideration, and it did not hurt. A wound once molting with blood, causing agony and discomfort. Not anymore, though, because she moves forward, twining onward to another knot on her distinct rope. An infant. A petite rope, with filaments of veins and strands of skin, is born today. Without knots or rips, deprived of struggles or experience. The rope will solidify with every celebration and encounter, and thicken as the soul ages. We are ropes of life, carrying knots of scars and reservations. Producing loops of merriment and triumph. Generating ties of friendship and love, bonding with one another. Ropes roaming into virtue, one day at a time.