The scars on the tree are beautiful
Built up over time, it heals
And strengthens the tree.
Now there’s a hole
Where it once was whole
And through it,
I can see the forest
That once was blocked from view
The scars in his brain are not beautiful
The holes in his memory
Have replaced the whole
Of who he was
He can no longer plan or reminisce
He can only live in the present,
Dragging me back to the now.
Is this a gift?
But look.
Through the holes in his brain
I can see the boy.
Stripped of the ego the man built
As armor against the world,
The boy shines through
I see the boy that he was,
Fascinated by the wonders of
Balloons and bubbles.
Playing and dancing and singing together,
In ways we never did when he was whole
I never knew him as a boy,
But maybe now I do.
In this present moment,
His scar is beautiful
Renée Brown Harmon, MD
March, 2023