I live in a scar on the face of North America. Two continents crashed into one another, half a billion years ago we think, causing an upsurge in the Earth s crust, in effect welding back together two continental pieces of the original solitary puzzle geologists call Pangaea. We call the scar the Appalachian Mountains. Rippling at various altitudes from Quebec to Alabama, these are the ancient oxygen forests trail rats find so magnetic.
Spring smells like honey laurel and waterfall.
In Autumn, burning bituminous and rotting crab apple. Winter, like everywhere, smells like virginity. The word scar seems a little strong for such breathtaking scenery. We use the word scar to indicate something that s permanent. We even emphasize the permanence of psychological trauma by thinking we re scarred for life by certain experiences.