My granddaughter ran up after her school play, still in her costume, and grabbed my hand.
‘Grandpa, what's this?’ She traced the line across my knuckles.
I'd almost forgotten it was there. It's been fifty-three years.
‘That's from a sheetrock knife,’ I said. ‘I was twenty-six, working with your great-grandfather.’
She asked if it hurt. I said it didn't, but that was a lie. It did then, and it still does, just in a different way.
The rideshare driver who brought me nodded. He was ending his shift, said this was his last ride. ‘That's a badge of honor,’ he said.
I looked at the program in my other hand. Her name in tiny letters under ‘Ensemble.’
My father never came to any of my school plays. He taught me drywall instead. That scar is the closest thing to a hug he ever gave me.
I folded the program into my pocket and held her hand all the way to the car.