There was nothing startling about his face. First glance barely worth a second. And yet, as I let my lazy eye drift again across his features, I caught a hint, an echo perhaps of extraordinary witness. In the infinite averageness of his expression, a spark of blue to his otherwise grey eyes, sharper than I had first noticed, the lines of his forehead like fossile footprints of events recorded ages ago in subtle strata, lines in perfect paralell but for one: one line crossed the rest from the bridge of his nose up and over the steppes of skin to crash in a fine, dark jungle of hair. Evidence of Adventure? The Mark of Mishap? What I lack in imagination, I compensate for in boldness: what story did that scar have to tell? I resolved myself to know it.
“My son, huh?” I handed the young man back the hand mirror, which he placed on the cart beside the hospital bed.
“Yup” he said. “Twenty four years now, Pop.” Didn’t sound familiar.
“If I’m your father then, how’d I get this scar?” I threw my thumb up to my face.
“Back in the Iraq War… first one.”
“Combat, eh?” See? I knew I was bold…
“No, Pop, you were stationed on an aircraft carrier in the Gulf, don’t you remember?” his face screwing tighter and tighter with concern.
“Oh, yeah, a pilot!” That sounds more like it – didn’t think ground poundin’ felt right.
He rolled his eyes this time. “Pop, you were on an ordinance crew on the deck,” he sighed heavily. “You never once stepped foot on a fighter. That’s your souvenir from slipping on the deck during a storm. You thought the thunder was enemy fire and ran too fast for the hatch.”
Like I said, what I lacked in boldness, I compensated for in imagination.
As Cap explained above, we should comment within the 
Still awaiting Sisyphus...