Seventeen years ago today, I gave a kidney to my childhood best friend's mother. The scar still runs four inches along my left side.
I keep a can of paint labeled 'touch-ups' under the sink. The pale yellow never quite matches the wall, but I keep patching the same spot anyway.
She died two years ago from a heart attack. The kidney I gave her worked until the very end.
My fiancée traces the scar with her finger. She says it's a map of something I can't name.
We're saving for a house. I still use the tuning fork my father gave me when I was nineteen.
I've learned that giving something away doesn't mean you lose it. You just keep it differently.