A scar is a memory, too: A silhouette of a day in August 2005 in 19 sentences or less (or more if you count a parenthetic phrase or two).
I have a scar on my knee.
This is because a few years ago I was in Toronto.
I was on the wrong floor of a very tall mall.
I was in transit on the escalator.
I turned around to go back up.
Just thought I could hop the distance.
I tripped and fell.
I fell right onto the teeth of the escalator.
The TEETH of the escalator.
I then cried out (something like), "AHHHHHHHH! AGG! AGG! OW! OW! AHG! ACK!"
My dad picked me up (I was 21 then; he is a firefighter and picks people up sometimes)
(Part of the job, you know)
(Am I cheating on my sentence count with these parenthesis?)
He put me on a couch.
(That floor happened to be a furniture store)
(I was bleeding all over the place)
Some kind of employee came with a first aid kit
(English was his second language)
He said he cannot tell if I need stitches
(Too many gallons of blood at that point; it was like the Niagara Falls of Doom)
(Did I mention I was on a brand new couch in a furniture store? I think it may have been a white or cream couch....yes, yes; I think it was cream)
I said, "Thank you, Eduardo, for your assessment."
(Everyone looked at me funny: It seems his name was NOT Eduardo, and I had thought he said it was)
Soon we got up and I limped back to the hotel.
I did not get stitches
(But I do have a scar; a scar on my knee)
Every scar is a memory, you see.