The day the cast came off, I drove straight to the diner and poured myself a coffee.
Off-season tables were empty. The fog hung over the pier like old news.
Dr. Morrison snipped through the fiberglass and my wrist appeared—white, thin, like something that had forgotten how to feel.
Underneath, the wristband from the 1992 All-State Choir Festival was still there, faded but whole.
The choir director had pressed it into my palm after I sang the solo. I thought it meant something more than praise.
I never took it off. Not when he married the alto. Not when I moved to this beach town.
Now the cast was gonecompress. The wristband had to go too.
I slid it over my knuckles. It hit the linoleum with a soft tap, and I didn't pick it up.
My younger self would have worn that thing into the grave. But healing means letting the scars see the light.