I have a scar on my right index finger, and I'm not sure what it's from. Not the Alfredo incident--that was my thumb. The cat that bit me when I was in kindergarten didn't leave a mark that I recall.
The lingering sense that I should remember the source of this blemish haunts me. It appears to be a recent injury, sustained within the past year or two. At the time, I must have told myself I'd recollect the moment each time I looked at my hand. Now it's gone, faded into the hazy place between useless things I learned as an undergraduate and important things I didn't write down as a graduate.
Maybe I stabbed myself with a fine-tip pen by mistake. It could be a place where I scraped myself with the head of a screwdriver as I assembled my big-girl furniture (bed, desk, sofa). Knowing me, it's likely to have come from an open flame.
Little pink dot, shinier than the surrounding flesh, won't you reveal your secrets?