These Unfading Scars

      It was a dumb idea.  A wrong step, a twisted ankle.  Mark felt bad.

      The doctor said nothing was broken.  Of course, that did not keep it from hurting, or swelling up like a balloon.  Luke just was not the athletic type.  Not that it had been his brother’s fault that Luke was the unlucky one to discover the gopher hole.

      “Just stay off it for a few days,” the doctor said.  He instructed Luke to ice it, keep it elevated—the usual routine.  It could have been much worse than a sprained ankle.

      Even so, that did not stop Luke from wincing as the nurse began to wrap the violated area.  She gave him a sympathetic look before smiling.  “That’s quite the scar you’ve got there,” she commented.

      After they arrived home, Luke found himself propped up in his dad’s easy chair, three pillows haphazardly piled beneath his foot.  Mark tried to play mom:  asking half a dozen times if Luke needed anything, offering any type of food that could be found in their house at least twice, and seeing to it that a whole slew of entertainment options were available.

      He tried, but it was not the same.  Mom would have found the fluffiest pillow to place under his foot, brought him one of his favorite books, and simply started preparing supper, leaving him with the instructions to call if he needed anything.

      Eventually, Luke managed to convince his brother that he was fine.  Ten minutes later, when Mark disappeared upstairs for a shower, Luke found himself alone.

      His gaze landed on the ace bandage firmly wound around his right ankle.  He experimentally attempted to flex his foot.

      After the accident, the cast had nearly reached his hip.  There had been no attempt to move his foot that time, or even to bend his knee.  Luke could not remember exactly how long he had been forced to use a wheelchair, but it had felt like an eternity.  His family had helped in any way they could while he was unable to get around, but that had only made Mom’s absence more pronounced.

      Everything had still been so fresh, so raw.  Luke’s bandaged face had not even allowed him the small comfort of crying without pain.

      They had driven past the crash site on the way to urgent care that morning.  Mark had been on the phone with Dad, had not even noticed.

      Luke had listened to the conversation distractedly.  “I don’t know if it’s broken or not,” Mark said.  “We’re on our way to have it x-rayed.”

      The wind had stolen another ribbon from the white cross at the corner.  The last blue one, Mom’s favorite.

      Luke thought about shouting for Mark’s assistance, but decided it was not worth the hassle.  Carefully, he eased himself out of the chair, gritting his teeth as weight settled on his injured foot, and hobbled toward the bathroom.  After washing his hands, his fingers slowly traced the pale scar across his cheek.

      The glass had practically exploded in his face.  It was the last thing Luke could clearly remember before waking up in the hospital.

      Even so, he had known somehow.  Even before anyone told him, he knew.  He did not know how, but the sight of his family had only confirmed it.

      “Mom—?” he had barely managed to croak out.  Mark shook his head.

      Luke gazed at the mirror a moment longer before hopping back to the living room chair.  He was attempting to rearrange the pillows when Mark returned.

      “How are you doing, Ace?”

      Luke shrugged as he allowed his brother to take over the pillow stacking efforts.  Inadvertently, he caught himself running his fingers over the scar once more.

      Mark noticed.  Luke recognized the shift in his brother’s eyes as the realization hit.  “We went passed the corner, didn’t we?”

      Luke silently nodded.

      Mark nearly had to carry Luke over the uneven ground between the car and the white memorial cross.  Luke’s one hand gripped his brother for support as he struggled to hobble across the grass.  The other fist was clenched around a handful of bright blue ribbons.