Once there was an old man whose body was covered with scars. Every morning, before putting on a shirt, he would look into the mirror to admire his scar-studded body, smiling as broadly as a man with a six-pack abs does these days.

Unlike most folks he knew who would do anything to conceal their scars, the old man was immensely proud of his.

“You should not be ashamed of your scars,” he would advise anyone who would listen. “Our scars are the remnants of the pains we went through, our trophy for prevailing over the tribulations that have come our way, the reminders of the strength we have inside.”

People would just nod their heads, but the moment he turned away, they would immediately embark on a journey to find effective ways to hide their ‘unsightly’ scars.

The old man knew this, of course, but he only said to himself: “Oh, how foolish some people are.”

One morning, as the man was admiring himself in front of the mirror, his grandson, who was standing by the door asked, “Where did you get that scar, grandpa?”

The old man patted his chest where a big scar of a freshly healed wound was visible. It was the scar caused by his wife’s recent demise. “Which one?”

“The one on your left arm? The bigger one.”

“Ah, dear child. This one, I got when a friend and I had a falling out decades ago. That event deeply wounded me. But it’s okay now. Time has healed me. Now, all I’ve got is a scar.”

“Oh!” the young boy exclaimed. “Did you and your friend ever make up again?”

The old man winced. “No.”

 “Oh.” The boy exclaimed sadly. “How about the one on your left thigh? The one just above the knee?”

The old man bent down and caressed his scar. “This one I got when I was much younger, when my father left me and my mother for another woman. You see, child, scars are caused by the events in our life that cut us deeply.”

The child nodded, but he was still very curious.

“Grandpa,” he asked as his grandfather was about to put on his shirt. “Why do some of your scars look the same? The one on your left cheek looks exactly the same as the ones on your right leg and back; and the one on your waist looks very much like the one on your bicep.”

The man paused, not knowing what to say or do. Then he crouched down so he was level with his grandson. He looked into the child’s eyes. “Son,” he began. “There are some events in life that resemble each other. Some wounds may be caused by the same circumstances, or by different, yet parallel events. Some are caused by events from which we should have learned a lesson the first time around, but didn’t. Hence, the scars that look the same.”

The old man paused to let his grandchild digest what he just said.

“Do you understand what I am saying?” The grandfather asked after a while.

The child nodded. “Yes…” Then he shook his head. “No. Not really.”

The old man held the child by his shoulders. “I’ve said it before, and I say it again. Never be ashamed of your scars. But if you can, try to choose the scars with which you decorate your body. Some scars are not worth getting.”

The child again nodded, understanding dawning upon him. But the grandfather was not yet finish.

 “I say this so you would learn from my mistakes,” he continued. “Scars are not keys; you do not need them in duplicates.”

//Sherma E. Benosa; 25 March 2008; 11:42pm

Yes, I wrote this on my 30th birthday! First posted in my personal blog, P[e]NORAMA