You can still see a mark, if you look closely. A crummy patch job, done to try to pretend it never happened. It never looks quite the same. You run your fingers along my side, pausing for a moment on the rough edge.
I remember the day the bombs fell. My neighbors to the right and left gone without a trace. I, the lucky one, escaped with only lifelong trauma and an ugly face. It’s taken til now to heal. I’m stronger for it. My walls may look mottled but I am whole again.