Under The Skin

The other day I was sitting in a taxi, up front with the driver when a woman got in and sat down next to me. She was slight of frame, light of skin with relaxed hair pulled back into a pony tail. She wore red, large-framed glasses and an engagement ring on the middle finger of her left hand. A navy blue skirt, striped blouse and black suit jacket with sleeves rolled up to the elbow. She was severely burned from the elbow to the knuckles of her left arm, from wrist to knuckle of her right hand and from ear to ear and hairline to throat. I couldn't see what kind of shoes she was wearing. She greeted me as she got in and I nodded and greeted her back, shifting over slightly to give her a little more room. There was no timidity in her greeting, no shying away from drawing attention to herself. This surprised me. Why? Because even when I just have a pimple I try my best not to draw attention to it or myself, invariably doing so anyway with conspicuously stilted movements. Though to be fair, that says more about me than it does about her.

Now, although the burns were probably the last thing that I noticed about the woman in the seat next to me they were most definitely the thing that left the strongest impression. They set my mind in motion. Not in a morbidly curious kind of way but in a more searchingly introspective one. I found myself wondering about her. Who was this woman under all of that scar tissue? What was her name? Who were her parents? Where did she go to school? Where did she work? What kind of music did she listen to?  Did she watch 'Deception'?

What was her life beyond living with all those scars?

There was a moment when I let my mind dwell on the pain she must have endured. The flames that had licked at her face and arms and for all I know other parts of her body as well; melting her skin, disfiguring her for life.

Had she been beautiful? There was no way for me to know.

In an instant my mind conjured up the hospital bed, the painful rehabilitation, the hopelessness and horror she must have felt the first time she looked at herself in the mirror; the doctors telling her and her family that there was nothing else they could do. The alienation. The inferiority. The despondency. I didn't know her but I grieved for her.

And then I remembered the engagement ring. I looked down at it. Golden band, shiny stone perched on top. Did that happen before or after the accident? Either way though, that was one hell of a man. He had that hell or high water love. That for better or worse love. I didn't know him but I kind of envied him. I envied his strength, his dedication, his refusal to quit. I'm loath to admit it but a part of me hoped that the ring was just for show. That ring, on that finger, belonging to that woman threw my up to that point unquestionable dedication to my beloved into the harsh light of scrutiny. If, God forbid, something was to ever happen to her; stripping her of physical beauty, relegating her to crutches or wheel chair or hospital bed, would I have the the strength and fortitude to stand by her? Would I have that immovable, unshakable, invincible love that I swore both to her and myself that I would have for the rest of our days together?

I didn't know. I really didn't. I always thought I did but faced with 'Hell or high water' the way I was sitting in that taxi I just didn't know. And that's what scared me the most. It threw into question my entire notion of my perceived 'goodness'. Would I really still love her if she looked like the woman sitting next to me? It's easy to say yes from this side of things. My beloved is gorgeously and wondrously put together. But the truth is, I really don't know.

What's more, does any of us?