Heat advisory afternoon. I was trimming oleanders along the harbor wall.
A young woman stopped and pointed at my forearm. 'That scar must have a story.'
I almost said fishhook. But something made me tell the truth. 'My brother. When we were boys. He was trying to cut a rope and I got in the way.'
She didn't flinch. 'I have one like that from my sister.'
She offered me a glass of water from her thermos. We sat on the curb under the hardware store awning. Through the window I could see their corkboard of expired coupons.
I haven't talked about my brother in years. Not to anyone. She didn't need to know the rest—that we don't speak now.
But for ten minutes, the scar wasn't a bad memory. It was just a thing that connected me to another person.
Back home, the heat had broken. I thought about calling my brother. I didn't. But I thought about it.