My scar is bright red.
It screams silently.
It reminds me that time is a healer. It reminds me of nights waking up sweating with the excruciating pain of recovery.
Long months of carrying a child – to just be cut open and pulled out… not pushed.
My scar is not small metaphorically or literally.
It demands attention when I look in the mirror.
It reminds me of the pain women connectively experience in the world of motherhood.
The silent battles of trying to conceive.
The infinite memory/life of a baby you never met Earth side – but will never forget…
The desperate screams of a mother in labor – after years of begging for a child.
Even the pain of the stigma surrounding those women who do not want any children.
The pain of the past, present, and future women who get to choose (or not choose) the path of carrying life.
The pain of the women I haven’t mentioned, who feel a pull at their chest reading this.
My scar represents all of you.
I hope it stays bright red.