Something Happened Here

Like the knot in a tree where a branch once grew. The branch is long gone, though the tree remembers. Not unlike the rings hidden beneath the bark, quietly recording winters and droughts no one else can see. River stones tell a similar story, not from one violent moment, but from thousands of ordinary encounters. Years of water doing what water does, as if time itself had left fingerprints.

Driftwood speaks in much the same way. Storms, tides, and seasons doing what they have always done. Nothing added. Nothing erased. Only shaped. The rough bark of an old oak carries its age openly, and no one wishes it smooth again. Somewhere in the desert, rocks darken with time, wearing their years with quiet dignity. The lightning scar on a tree that refused to fall. The crease in an old leather saddle. The worn grip of a favorite hammer. 

Evidence.

Not of damage.

But of life.

Something happened here.

And perhaps something mattered here.

The white speck of paint on the sleeve of my shirt. The blue stain from Cristy's Red Hot glue wiped along the pant leg. Yes... Christy's Red Hot is blue. And no, I didn't have a towel. The schmear of caulk stretched across the front of my shirt, on day one of its first wear- ever...

The red mark on my shoulder left behind by RedGard.  A shower build that refused to stay inside its own week. A scratch on the tape measure. The worn edge of a pencil. A pair of pants carrying the same memories, and the boots beneath them.

Old friends, really.

Every once in a while, they meet again in the field. Same shirt. Same pants. Different day, same stories between them. And every once in a strange while, the trifecta appears. Matching boots. Three old companions picking up right where they left off.

Remember the shutters?

Remember that shower?

Remember that ridiculous week?

Crazy how that works.

The repairs become memories. The memories become stories. And somewhere along the way, the stories leave their marks.

Not unlike tree rings.

Or driftwood.

Or scars.

Unlike photographs, the stains are accidental. Unplanned. Honest. Memories that forgot to wash out... and that I honestly need to carry more towels.

As for life, the days themselves have a way of blending together. Tuesday becomes Thursday. Last month becomes last year. Projects overlap. Time does what time does.

Meanwhile, the marks remain.

Just as they do in canyon walls, driftwood, the bark of old trees, and stones beneath the river, perhaps creation itself remembers. Not perfectly.

But faithfully.

Maybe that is what scars are.

Maybe that is what weathering has always been.

Not damage.

Memory.

Until next time.