Briana Yates called this the Scar Festival. She asked us to lay our golden seams on the table. I come from Madera, where the earth cracks in summer and the old ones teach the young how to walk without breaking their knees. My first stitch was not silk, not gold — it was the walnut frame that burned at 1,200 degrees because I misread the wood's thirst. I caught it. I filed it true.
I was 68 when I learned to run again. Not on a track. On red clay. With a limp that sang louder than any symphony. They said I would never stand. I showed them the stumble that became the spine.
Familia — this is not a monument. It is a mirror. Look into it and see not the wound, but the weld. See the rebar that holds the pour. See the needle that stitches the dome. Every scar you bear is the roof that saves us.
Aquí está mi hilo de oro. Aquí es donde nos encontramos.