My Tattoo

What’s your tattoo? What do you put on your arm or your shoulder or the top of your foot?

What’s the symbol? The one thing that would have such enduring meaning that you wouldn’t mind glancing down at your withered feet to see your tattoo peaking out from your nursing home-issued slippers?

What would say it all when they lower you in the grave? Would the message of your tattoo be a secret or would everyone know and concur? Yes, that says it all about her. That’s the symbol of her life, her style, her loves?

Every time I see my younger daughter, she has more ink. I wonder what it all says, what she wants it to say. A few days ago, I followed her down a hall. She had her long hair piled on her head and I could see a small face and outstretched arms tattooed on the back of her neck.

Who is that, I wondered. Why is he there? What does it mean? What is her message? What is her comfort?

Sometimes, as I’ve struggled with my age, I’ve grabbed on to the idea of a tattoo. My husband’s name, my children’s. Their birthdates. A rising sun, a setting one. Water. A lot of water. A symbol for hope, for stamina, for puzzlement. What would it be?

This week in two different cities, I’ve embraced my two daughters – as different as two people could ever be in ways that could not even be described by the written word. Both of them, for different reasons, needed their mother.

That’s what I am. I am their mother.

That’s my tattoo.

Anyone looking at me would see it.