Me, My Friend, and a Tattoo

I drift.  One thing leads to another.

I heard from a friend today.  We talk sporadically; it’s like we just spoke two hours ago to one another.  “Hey,” she says.  I’m right with her.  All I need is one word and I’m there, without any passage of time, without our many miles of distance.

My friend tells me her parents’ bodies are breaking.  Her mother-in-law is breaking too.  We’ve reached that age where our original gods are falling to their knees.  In response to the breaking apart of her parents, she got a tattoo.

A Celtic thing.  With meaningful colors and whirly whirls inked into her frightened body.

I couldn’t be more awed by my friend.  In response to the pain of her parents, she laid a symbol on her back.  Leave Me Alone, it says.  I’m Not Afraid, it shouts.  I Am At Peace, it belies.

I’m fighting the urge to get my own tattoo now.  If I were to do such a thing, I’d probably pick out the cartoon character, Goofy, for my ankle, a butterfly on my back, a circlet of Army-speak around what used to be my bicep because I once tried to join the Reserves. Maybe something esoteric and dragony.  Oh, yeah … I’d be the queen of Ink.

I’d be all over it.  But … I have a husband, and two dogs … and other family who would look askance at me and think me ridiculous for embellishing what they already love.

Still ……..