Bumper

A bumper is the part of a vehicle designed to take the first impact. It stands at the front, exposed to whatever comes its way, protecting what follows behind it. There is something about that position that has always interested me: being first means accepting the consequences before anyone else does.

That is what I see in the red marks across this iron. They remind me of the hands of a man from Brazil’s backlands, shaped by years of work; of the lines around the eyes of a woman who has laughed, cried, and lived enough for her face to remember; of tattoos chosen to become part of the body, and scars that arrived without permission. I don’t find beauty in every mark. I find evidence of having been here.

Time changes the way we read those signs. What feels like failure at twenty may look like a necessary turn years later. A mistake can teach more than certainty ever will. Asking for help may demand greater courage than pretending to have everything figured out. Changing your mind, admitting you were wrong, allowing yourself to be vulnerable: maturity may begin when perfection stops being something worth performing.

I have always preferred what bears the signs of having been lived to anything manufactured to look flawless. A surface that has taken a hit tells us something happened to it. So do people. Their scars, contradictions, errors, and tenderness belong to the same history.

The part that takes the first blow also clears the way. There is responsibility in that, and there is a price.

Time leaves its marks on everything. What changes is our ability to understand them. Some disappear. Others stay with us. None needs to be hidden to make a life worthy of being seen.