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.
I am not a big fan of permanent ink, but with all of the scars that have been thrust upon you against your will, if you did decide to do it, at least it would be something permanent that you chose to have imprinted forever on your person. If it means something to you, go for it.