An emotional wound is like any other war injury. It bleeds and stings until a thick layer of scar tissue creeps over to protect it. Then life is back again. For the scar tissue and you are now a team. The scar is even stronger than your original skin, though it lacks texture and flexibility. Yet it sees you through many more days of war. Your cherished sentry wears various uniforms -- money, sexual attractiveness, humor, intellectual achievement, even compassion. But the thing is this. The wound is still there. It is a ticking clock tucked beneath a thick blanket.

If you are lucky, a perfectly sharp knife will show up on time to pierce the surface.

You will be surprised by the new blood. It smells musty and old. It hurts more because it is a surprise. A shock on this day. In this year. In this decade. When all should have been sorted out. You are surprised by the tears it produces. And the awful sting. Today there is no triage team. (As if there was back then.)

That crack in the thick keloid will also ooze a certain puss. A new substance that makes the musty smell positively noxious. It's called shame. You will feel shame. As if you are responsible for the wound! Or even the new knife. You were a child. What did you know of war? And what now do you know of the minds of men? Their unawareness. Their ability to inflict.

If you are lucky, you will not try to stitch the wound. If you are brave and not squeamish at all, you will taste the blood. You will run your tongue along your lip and taste the ambitious tear that has passed the others and made it down your cheek to the corner of your mouth. You will sit here feeling the flow of blood and tears and you will see their value. You will see the strange gift of this shameful wound. Others will finally see too. In this uncomfortable place, you are finally coming home from the war. They will call you a brave warrior and give you a medal. Not that you care about ribbons and metals. All you ever wanted, even before the war, was to be home with your family.