229/365: Scar Line
We climbed to the top of the tallest hill
and pitched our tents in sandy soil,
zipping sleeping bags together
so we could share body heat
and pile up against the fearful night.
In the morning, we toed adulthood,
brewed our first coffees over a low fire,
prodded out of damp wood,
and turned to hide our grimaces in the rising sun.
I ran my finger along the raw line
a bathing suit tie had chafed into the back of my neck
and wondered if the scabbed band would scar
so I could always reach up and run the line with my finger
to remember that morning's blanching sun,
the smell of wet wood smoke clinging to child skin,
and my heart's stammering over its first drug.