We are stitched together now.

It is winter and I am curled up in the narrow bed of my girlfriend. Lying close, we are heat-sticky and naked. A scar spreads over her shoulder like a leech. It is from an old boyfriend, she told me. It was a party. He was drunk. The beer bottle shattered before either of them knew what had happened. Twelve stitches. I kissed that scar. I would never be that careless. That scar was before me, but it reminds me of how one day I will be a memory just like it. She has taken a job in London and I have become the old boyfriend.

We promise to write every day, and do. I begin planning a trip to visit her, perhaps even to relocate. There is no money for it, but we write to forget. After awhile, we adjust. That is when our letters become infrequent. There is no desire between us anymore. There is no need to escape. The letters stop.

Years pass and my girlfriend becomes a stranger to me. My memory of her is unreliable. Only goodness remains.

When I am thirty-eight, I meet Holly. She is nothing like my girlfriend. I cannot say exactly how, but I am sure of it. Our memories paint over the old. I cannot seem to remember anything at all about my girlfriend. I propose.

When I am forty, Clarissa is born. Pink plastic has takes over the house. I trip over toys and wipe noses. I become Daddy.

One afternoon, Clarissa and I are left on our own. We play strange made-up games that involve running and bossy commands. She is four and imperious. I have left the morning cartoons to run as background noise and the children's programming fades into the afternoon news report. We are ignorant of this until the sound of explosion rattles us out of our dream. I twist around to see smoke billowing from a subway somewhere. Clarissa yelps and stares. I slap a hand over her eyes but she strains to see between my fingers.

Out of the darkness, a body staggers out. She is limp and pale. Her face is smeared red and black. She falls to her knees and a set of paramedics sweep her up. I know that woman, I realize. Her face is not one to be forgotten, I think while knowing that I have done exactly that. Then, I remember. All the goodness rushes back to me:

Snow gathers on the windowsill of the dorm room. We are pressed chest-to-back. I can feel her heartbeat. The scar on her shoulder is flushed pink. It happened before they knew what hit them.

Clarissa wrenches away and tumbles back against a case. The vase that sits on one shelf topples down. In flight, it shatters. There is blood on Clarissa's shirt. She is stiff with shock. Her eyes are wide and betrayed. How could I be so careless?

Twelve stitches become the scar that sits on my daughter's shoulder.