scars are made, not born

There's a story in that scar he's wearing. It's probably just the cat, or maybe a carpentry project, but my mind goes beyond the mundane.

Well. It's not yet a scar, but it likely will be. The scab looks pretty gnarly and the skin is all red and angry around it. It doesn't look septic, but I think the memories tied to the ring just below it may well be.

The cut is on his left ring finger, and the gold band has been his for over twenty years.

It's unlikely that there will be twenty more.

The woman he married had a sister who never made it past 50 and a mother who didn't see 61. At 65, his wife is the longest lived on her particular branch of the family tree.

He both cares for her and provides care for her, as her health has slowly paled as surely as her complexion. Grays and wrinkles find us all, but they've set upon her heavily in the last two years. Where she was strength and fire she's now shadowy embers, slowly burning enough to know there's warmth hidden away somewhere. Her fires are stoked with the heat of disagreement and she burns with the need to be contrary. Her ways are the best ways if not the only ways, and this is made harder for her to reconcile since she no longer can perform many of the ways on her own.

We were friends once, and I miss those days.

It makes me happy to see her face light with joy, but there's still the heat of argument just behind her excitement as she opens her Christmas present and I explain its meaning. It's almost as if she wants to debate the nuance of my gift and how she should use it; to me, it is clear, but explanations that suit her are difficult these days.

She'll be given that trip to Ireland that she's always wanted, and he'll be along with her. She asks if I'll go, and I beg off because of work.

God help me, I know I should want to go, but I just don't. Time is short, but so is patience. I've always felt the need to spend my time wisely, because my branch of her family tree isn't exactly long and winding, either. I should spend more time with my mother, but it's an emotionally expensive investment for us all. I want her to find happiness in those Emerald Isles, or the closest thing to it she can, and me being there probably won't bring much of that to anyone.

Except maybe him, because he needs a break. I can tell. He and I share glances across the Christmas table, and he is weary.

There isn't a scar on his finger yet, but I can tell the ring is slowly cutting him pretty deep.