I have old clothes, some dating back decades. A US Army OD green over coat from the end of WW II. My riding leathers are at least 20, tattoos date back nearly 40 years, and uniforms at least as old as my ink. To my daughters’ dismay, I still have shirts that I wear they remember from their childhood.
It’s the scars that tell the tail. The big one in my calf comes from basic training and doing dumb shit with the other guys and earning a trip to the hospital. We hid the knives after that. Three more from Iraq, four if you count the ones from my body armor wearing holes in my sides. One my elbow. More around my eyes from fighting for years. And the oldest, in the middle of my forehead that is probably fifty-five by now, from playing with my brothers. There are dozens more that have faded away, from work or play.
Yep. It’s gotta be my scars.
The New Word Wars 