Scars are a part of you; they never go away. All scars have a story. Whether it’s funny, sad, or scary—the story’s always there. My scar’s story is one of pain and despair; a story in which fears are faced and lessons are learned, all from one little spark.
Our summer stays at my family’s beautiful country home were always my favorite part of the year. The old house had the perfect mix of chaos and comfort. When I close my eyes, memories of summers past flood my mind. The smell of the wet grass in the morning, every single blade glistening with dew. The cheerful chirps of the birds at dawn and the sound of their peaceful coos in the evening. In the summer we ran around outside catching fireflies and fell asleep while gazing at the stars. So many traditions turned to dust that one dreadful night.
I can remember it like it was yesterday. The bright lights, the soft warm glow, the horrible burning in my throat. It was the last day of summer and the sun was beginning to go down. I had decided to go to bed early, tired from a long, glorious day. I was sound asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. Dreams of vast green meadows surrounded me in my tranquil slumber. Then I heard the barking… the screams. I sat bolt upright, scrambling frantically out of bed. As I reached out to open my bedroom door, I jumped back and yelled in pain. Why was my door handle burning hot? I used the sleeve of my nightgown this time and flung open the door. Immediately, a burst of hot air and ash blew into my face. My eyes filled up with tears as I took in the sight in front of me. My house, the house I had lived in my whole life, was on fire. Bursts of red, orange, and yellow swirled around me as I stumbled about, lost with no direction. At that moment, one question was repeating in my mind like a broken record. Where was my family? I coughed, having trouble breathing through all the smoke. Tears were cascading down my face; I felt like a piece of me had been torn away. My elbow hit something hot and I realized it was a door handle. I grabbed it and yanked it open, not caring about how much it burned. I stumbled outside into the open air and collapsed. Shouts filled the air and I heard running footsteps. A pair of warm hands lifted me up and embraced me. I looked up into the pained face of my mother, her eyes reflecting how I felt. Hugging her back, I looked up at our house just in time to see it collapse. It was gone, and with it was a piece of my heart.
Scars don’t go away. You can learn how to forget a scar and pretend it never existed, but it will still be there in the back of your mind, holding a painful memory. That night I received my first scar and, unfortunately, not my last. I learned that sometimes the most important piece of your life will be taken away, for reasons unknown. But it’s not the piece you need; it’s the memories.
The Woodlands, Texas
Andover, Massachusetts
