DANIEL LEBOEUF is a transplanted Virginian living and working near Detroit. His credits include: Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine, Haypenny, Fuzzynet, and Kittenpants.

                                                                   scars


The scar on my hand, healed now to pale white, is all I have left of her.

I imagine the day sometimes still. She’s sitting at her vanity, white, immaculate, everything just so.

Just like her life.  A perfect lady. Calm, polite, smart, and smart enough to hide it. Kind, too. I remember her as gentle, but tough.

Can’t ever forget tough.

How tough does one have to be? Husband gone. Then the cancer.

The scar, healed now to a pale white. The color she was during chemo. How tough did she have to be?

She beat it though. Tough lady. More years of gingerbread for us, more years of backyard parties.

She was ordered, but allowed for chaos. She truly loved her family, and little ones never bothered her.

Cancer couldn’t beat her, neither could her broken heart. How many has she buried now? Twenty?

Love and suffering.

She tried to tell me, but I never knew. Love and suffering are inseparable.

The image comes again, I close my eyes to it.  No use. It’s as if I’m there.

Clutching her chest, she staggered, pulled the vanity down as she fell. At least she couldn't watch herself die.

I found her. The next day.

Her skin was that pale, healed-scar color again. I don’t know how long I cried.

Before I called the police, I had to straighten up. It was the least I could do.

Grandma’s big vanity mirror lay in shards. Picking up the pieces, I got careless. And got this scar, now healed.

I miss her. All these years, and I miss her.

Come on, I’ve made some gingerbread. It’s her recipe. I found it later.

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© 2003 Daniel LeBoeuf