Scars
“You have a lot of scars.” My son is standing next to me as I’m sitting on a truck-stop toilet, my pants bunched around my knees. He’s looking at my thigh. It’s extra pale in the fluorescent light. He is six years old and does not know what cellulite is, what ingrown hairs are — only that his mother’s legs are dimpled and marked in ways that his own skin, smooth and caramel colored, is…
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