I don’t remember how I got the scar on my right thigh. It’s shaped like a smile but not a happy one. More of a forced smile – the kind you give a distant relative who’s come to visit and is motioning you to come in for a hug.
I had relatives like that, all the way from Hungary. They couldn’t speak a word of English and they smelled like basements. Would I smell like that too, one day?
My Grandmother did although my Grandfather didn’t. But they both smelled the same at the end – like honey and sweat and wilted flowers, sympathy cards and nightgowns.