There are some hurts that fall off like scales. There are some that we must carve out like tumors. They invade every vein, every artery, every cell. With precision and gritted teeth,we must painstakingly remove all traces. Of a friend, a lover, a connection that’s woven itself into the fabric of our bodies. There is no anesthesia. The cries of pain from our soul go unmedicated and unanswered, save the placing of a scalpel in our hand. And so we must go to work. Eventually the shock sets in, and instead of pain, we feel numb. The hours of careful cutting leave us utterly exhausted. We get most of it out. What’s left, we let our body try to handle on its own. As we heal, we see the scars raise along our limbs, across our chest; remembrances trailing across our skin. But the only way to be sure it’s all out, is to cut ourselves open again. Each time the pain is fresh, but the scar gets thicker, the tissue builds. Over and over we must open ourselves up to see if the hurt is gone. Sometimes reopening the scar invites the hurt to settle back in. Sometimes reopening the scar, we are surprised to find that it has diminished to only a fraction of what once took over our entire being. Sometimes, we find that it’s not there at all, and we can let the wound heal once and for all. The hardest part is picking up the scalpel. Until we open our veins and see it with our eyes, it’s easy to dismiss. To walk around full of this sickening cancer, this disparaging hurt, as if we are healthy and whole. But once the slice has been made, there is no denying what flows through our veins. And we have no choice but to carve it out.
