I am Here

The cut on my thumb, a tiny thing but persistent, has finally healed. For two weeks it has been giving a pang when I press it, a small cry for help. “I am here, I am here,” like the Whos in the Dr. Seuss story. The body is alarmist in that way, the slightest fissure immediately screaming for assistance. And I suppose this makes sense since any cut signals the start of a microscopic war, the outcome of which my life depends on. For days I’ve applied antibiotic cream and soaked the thumb in hot salted water, and now all that’s left is a tiny lump of scar tissue. Nothing completely heals. Or disappears altogether. What would that even look like? My body is a collective memory.