I have a lot of scars, and the majority have unhappy stories behind them. This is not one of those stories.

My first partner and I did a lot of ill-advised stuff in a lot of ill-advised places. What can I say, we were young and stupid. I'm pretty sure that this particular ill-advised hijink happened in the back of her car, in a movie theater parking lot, not the one a security guard caught us in. We had figured out early on that we both enjoyed pain, and this evening we were playing around with some new methods for causing it (I can only imagine what passers-by thought when they saw the candles glowing in the back of the car). I think this may have been the first time I cut my initials into her hip, a ritual we repeated several times, given the incredible way she healed without mark. I, on the other hand, scar if you look at me funny, and the few delicate cuts she made on my stomach remain as thin white scars. They've always put me in mind of the dove necklace my mother wears, of birds and flight.

Until very recently, this scar didn't mean much to me. But on November first, my first partner was hit by a car, and I will never hear her speak again, never laugh with her, never make new memories with her again. Suddenly, this scar is precious, an artifact of a limited resource. I've always thought of my scars as a map of my past, but this is the first one that feels like a peek through the keyhole of a door slammed between me and another time.