In 2012, the summer before our graduate program started, we took a dream trip to Asia. We witnessed a teaching by the Dalai Lama in his exiled home and had fresh grilled fish by a river in India. We saw the  sacred temple ruins of Angkor Wat and experienced a sobering visit to the Land Mine Museum. We had the world's best boat noodles for 25 cents and drunkenly roamed the narrow shopping aisles of Siam in Thailand. We visited our parents' motherland and spent time with family eating delicious home cooked Vietnamese food. We visited my dear old nanny and second mother to my dad, an elderly nun who was living in a Catholic convent and died a year later. 

In between these beautiful experiences with the world around us, the world between us was breaking down. We did our best to hide the tumult away from the friends we traveled with and visited but I'm sure the hardened distance between us was not difficult to sense. So many of the cracks in our relationship were already present then. Just as we were about to fall completely apart, one terrifying motor bike accident saved us, pulling our relationship back together at a moment when nothing else seemed redeeming. The accident woke us up to the preciousness of our relationship and together we softened into our shared suffering.   

While we were in Thailand, we took a day trip out to Kanchanaburi Province, just outside Bangkok, to explore Erawan National Park, home to a spectacular seven tiered waterfall.  On our way back on a motor bike, we were trailing a pickup truck on a two lane road. Thinking we had enough room to pass the truck, we sped our bike up on the left side, but overestimated, and the next thing you know, our bike along with our bodies were thrown into the gravel path right off the shoulder lane. After a visit to the local hospital, we walked away completely shook but only with excruciating road rash. 

I had the worse wound of the bunch. Because it landed right on my right knee cap, it took forever to heal. It would open up repeatedly as I walked or did anything active for months. Each time I thought maybe it had finally closed, any particular movement would pull it apart again, stinging each time like several paper cuts. The wound healed into a really ugly, thick keloid. Even though the skin had completely healed over, the scar would still tingle with pain if I accidentally hit it on a corner or even poked it with my finger. It took a handful of years after the accident for the pain to fully go away. Now when I notice the scar, I remember what happened with a mix of feelings, but it no longer hurts. 

The scar of my divorce is just like this scar on my knee. Some days, the scar opens up again and the sting of the wound can feel just as raw and tender. Other days, the grief is there but feels distant, somewhat dimmed in the background of daily life. The flesh of my heart is mending at her own pace, her skin growing thicker again, finding resilience and growth with each passing ache. Maybe one day, after more time has passed, when I notice this scar, many feelings may still arise, but perhaps it will no longer hurt.