The wind blows between my toes. It tickles the little hairs on my big toes and reminds me I forgot to shave them. Those two little hairs on each big toe make me feel like I'm never totally girly. All these scars on my legs, too. The scar from the broken beer bottle my dad left in his car. Bad memories attached to that one. Eleven stitches, and a trip to the beach after where I couldn't get my leg wet. Those aren't the bad memories tangled up with that scar. The beer bottle, the alcoholism, the drugs: the father who chose to party instead of being my daddy. It all wells up when I think of how the scar came to be. But I wear my scar with no shame. All the other scars-the shaving nicks, the mosquito bites that were scratched to the point of bleeding and oozing-those are superficial and temporary. The scar, that jagged scar in two places, side by side, crooked, freckled, pinkish. That scar will be there until the day I die, and it will remind me. My father is gone, not dead, mind you, but long gone. So much pain he caused, so much I hated him. Now I am okay. Now I know that the scar made me who I am. He made me who I am in some ways, and I accept it. I am okay. But it still hurts sometimes.