Some memories linger not because of grand events, but because of small, quiet details. One of my earliest recollections is a faint scar on my mother’s upper arm. It rested high on her shoulder—visible in short sleeves, yet subtle enough to escape casual notice. As a child, I didn’t understand why it drew my attention, but I found myself observing it whenever it appeared.
The Stories We Carry: Reflections on a Childhood Memory
