For five years, I’ve been tending a wound, then a scar, that I said wasn’t real because there was nothing to show for it. — Tiny bits of blue peek through a sheet of blotchy gray, like the blue veins streaking down the backs of my hands, fragile but protected by the thinnest skin. My hands are the only place I can see them, but I know they’re there. I step out in the backyard…