I arrived in Chicago just as the sun was setting across the water of lake Michigan. The few remaining autumn leaves were clinging to their sagging branches, as the winter winds slowly whirled up around the trees, tempting the remaining leaves to join the wind dance.
It was cold but I was content to sit outside for a few minutes longer. While Chicago was not my final destination, the relief I felt at my arrival was unexpected but all consuming. I was content to watch the passersby slowly disperse, as Millennium Park breathed a sign of relief with the ending of another busy day.
The dusk muted the colors around me and I allowed myself to refocus. I looked down at my grubby hands and slowly turned one over the other. My hands were unrecognizable – dirt caked under my nails, dust settled in the lines of my palms. Across my left hand the deep scar looked worse than ever, a jumble of dust and dirt and scarred tissue slashed messily across my pale skin. I remember when I’d hurt it and remembered how I’d cried just as if I was a little boy again.
I suddenly became acutely aware of the presence next to me, a black man of unimposing stature who was regarding my hands with the same curiosity as myself. He was old and I wondered what stories were behind the deep lines across his forehead. He held his hand out in front of us, displaying a scar far deeper and far darker than my own.
“Got this one when I was 17” he said in a gruff but gentle voice. “Sliced my finger when I was out cutting spinach down in Mississippi, and damn it bled for days.”
I didn’t know why my voice had gone hollow but it had, and I didn’t say anything.
I looked down at my own scar, and thought maybe me and this stranger weren’t all that different.
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