TATTOO

**This piece was written for the Write On The River annual writer's competition where it received an Honorable Mention for non-fiction writing.**


Her grandmother called it a sin.

  March got her first tattoo when she was twenty-one. A Christmas gift from the Wolf (her lover), it was a modest self-drawn snowflake inked into place by a shaky-handed apprentice to the great Wanda H. of Peoria, Illinois.  They had driven 7 hours along flat, featureless winter roads to fill a weekend with wake-n-bakes, hard music, heavy drinking, long-standing friendship, unspeakable love and some virgin ink. The needle offered a new sensation to her life and her brain felt in tune with the rhythm of its sounds and the heat from its sting. Later, standing in the filthy bathroom with her shirt pulled up over her head, March carefully removed the bandages from her shoulder, examined the art she had acquired and smiled. It was as if someone had opened the door to an invisible cage and allowed her to walk out, free.

  Thinking back, March remembered the first time she had entered this room. Flash Art encased in protective acrylic sleeves filled the walls as her high school girlfriend flipped through the pages of each plastic-bound book of images. It was a neon-filled parlor in a Wisconsin tourist trap of a town. Overweight moms and Harley dads and newly turned eighteen-year-olds exploring their freedom and not much else. She couldn’t even remember the symbol that had finally been chosen since it was meaningless. Art didn’t live here. This was more like a dare. This way, was without love.....

  Her next visit to a parlor happened within the year but, again, it was not she who sat the chair. Standing alongside her enigmatic friend, March watched as the artist tried to make sense of the sinuous space left behind from the scoliosis along Little Bird’s spine. Little Bird had been a gymnast as a child and the rigors of training and poor genetics left her twisted but strong. The final piece followed the center of Little Bird’s back, but not the bones beneath. It was a list of carefully chosen symbols in black and flesh, set with an overly-heavy hand. The art healed dark and scarred and beautiful like Little Bird herself.

  At a party that winter, someone pulled out a home tattooing kit and began working the soft skin inside Kiah’s lower lip. Small stabs of blueish ink began to form out the word that would remain there forever. On the perpetrator’s wrist lived a bolt of lightning and on her partner’s hand a crescent moon.  Eventually, March would watch those two people grow older together, separate, remain friends and finally dissolve into obscurity. But still, the bolt and the moon remained alongside the memory of that night.

  In the spring, March got home late from class and had to ride her bike as fast as the wind to reach the shop in time. He was already in the chair and the work was nearly complete. The Wolf had chosen an ancient script that wrapped gracefully around his muscular calf. The needle began to bounce as it passed over the bone in his shin and he drew in his breath deeply to compensate. The size and scope of the art was larger this time, the session lasting hours. In the end, the Wolf was tired and drawn and shivering with adrenaline. March followed him home and kissed his watery eyes.

  The fall was crisp and golden. Always happy, Cat decided that her time had come and asked if March would sit with her while the ink work was done. Cat’s skin turned red and blotchy beneath the needle and small droplets of blood exuded themselves from the damaged tissue. A cacophony of musical notes spread gracefully across her supple back; a symphony to play on forever….

  And then, nothing. For years, there was nothing. No needles. No Art….at least not for March. She wandered into a small shop at some point during the hot summer and had almost conceded to a meaningless piece of work if only to have some connection again to the transcendence, focus and love that the ink offered. She made an appointment; but never showed up.

  Then quite suddenly and unexpectedly March’s heart was again moved. Captivated, for 10 years she carried a photograph tucked carefully inside the creased and dirty pages of a CrimethInc. novella.  Occasionally, she would pull out the aging paper and wonder if she would ever commit to fulfilling her desires. Once, she thought the image to be lost and nearly panicked; so encircled was her soul around its subtle meanings for her life. A mustang ensnared by a pair of griffins. In the face of certain death the steed remained poised and strong, meeting its fate boldly and without fear.

  It was her 37^th birthday. The Wolf had arranged for her to meet Little Bird in a back-alley parlor amidst the chaos and beauty of Capitol Hill. The room had tall tin ceilings and walls the color of new blood. The vertical surfaces were adorned with mounted animal heads (boar and coyote)and the gilded frames of petit paintings in oils and acrylics. The windows were large open panes of glass and as the needle worked, March watched a man walk past dressed in tube socks, underwear and nothing more. Over the course of four hours, the soft skin of her belly became transformed into the gruesomeness of a truth only she could really understand. The wings of each beast spread out toward the bones of her hips with the head of the wild horse dipping gently below her navel. As the ink flowed, March did not cry out. Indeed, she barely moved. Her thoughts remained quiet and her breathing came in long flowing sighs as she explored the calmness of the world inside her mind. After all this time, March had again found peace….. At last.

Ghanima

Preface: This was the essay I wrote for the Write On The River state-wide writer's competition in the spring of 2014. I feel honored to have been recognized with the prize of 2nd Place for a Non-Fiction essay. It is very personal and has taken me a long time to feel comfortable enough to share it openly. It is my heart laid bare.

I became an adult the day my dog Ghanima died.  

Ghanima had been a 3 month old stray when I found her on the Rez. She was the starving runt of a mixed litter. She had fleas, was covered in mange and had the most beautiful emotional eyes I had ever seen in a dog. I knew she was meant to be with me.

Ghanima was a fierce and loyal friend who preferred life out under the stars to the warmth of our home. She gracefully made the transition to over six different houses, as my husband and I struggled to find our place in the world, and she learned the property lines of each.  Her self-assigned position was border patrol, which she excelled at.

The day she died was the same as the day before. We met our neighbors at the bus stop. Ghanima smiled and wagged her tail, greeting each one of us in turn with a lick and a quick rumble of hello from her soft black and white throat.  She crossed the road to run up the hill, chasing a scent that eluded her. I let her go; my first child....the child you have before you have children. The one who teaches young couples how to care for themselves, how to care for another, how to be reliable and trustworthy. The one who teaches you how to be a parent. I let her go, remaining innocent to danger, tragedy, circumstance.

I heard the truck approaching. There was a deep rumbling that bounced off of the valley walls and traveled on ahead; around the blind corners. This was not a regular day.  The schedule was wrong. Maybe the driver was running late? Maybe he was ahead of schedule and humming happily.

I became aware of my children; analyzed their patterns of play, wanting to keep them away from the road. I looked across the pavement to see where Ghanima may be, hoping she was still on her wild goose chase through the forest high above. However, during my visual search Ghanima and I locked eyes which only drew her closer to me.

I began to yell...what could I do? I could not leave my children; I could not reach my dog ahead of the approaching truck. As she edged her way down the hill toward us, I yelled for my sweet girl to stay there, to sit, to stay. The panic in my throat convinced her that she must be in trouble and she began to come to my side to make amends. We locked eyes again, mine pleading with her to wait. Please wait, please wait. I knew there was not enough time for her to make it across the road. I was paralyzed....helpless and afraid.

The distance between life and death was minute. She made no sound. She looked at me, confused, and then was gone. Her body lay still. Silent, alone on the cold, black ground. I ran to her wailing, maybe moaning, but I could barely hear myself.  The soft brown eyes that I had known for nine years did not move. Her body was warm. When I lifted her, I felt the ribs shift under her skin. Her blood on my black jacket ran hot and red. It stained my jeans and covered my hands as I carried her body over to the shoulder and gently lay her on the gravel, safe from further assault. I had never in my life experienced this sensation....the bitter loss of love right before my eyes. I lay my head on her chest to be closer to her and began to sob. I buried my nose briefly in her fur and inhaled her sweet dog scent.

In the distance, my children were screaming. I drowsily came to my senses and made my way back to them...my hands still stained and sticky, my jacket dripping, the puddles on my jeans spreading into a coppery, dry stain. I grabbed hold of my children and pulled them in tight. We held each other and I calmed them the best I could. The three of us distractedly made our way down the driveway to our house. I barely remember saying goodbye to my neighbor and her child as they continued to wait for the school bus. I barely remember putting my children in the car and explaining that we needed to go rescue the body of their beloved pet.  I ran up to my room looking for anything I could use to cover the body, to gather it up and transport it to....where? I found a clean white sheet in the bottom of the pine chest next to the bed.

On the way out to the road, we passed another neighbor. He must have heard my screams from earlier because his eyes were crinkled with concern and mild curiosity. We passed by with barely a wave of the hand.

I drove the wrong way down the highway to the place where Ghanima’s body lay and jumped out with the sheet. I wrestled with her limp body and for the first time in all of her life truly felt her weight on my arms. My small frame could barely manage to move her sturdy, muscular body into the car.......

                                                                                                              

She is buried in our yard now, amidst the fruit trees and berry bushes. From where she lay, there is a view both to the north and south along the length of the canyon. It’s the place where the sky is large and where she can still see the boundaries of our property. We still talk about her in present tense. In the mornings my son and husband often walk down to visit her and wish her good morning.

The day Ghanima died was the day I realized that there was no safety net between myself and the violence of the world. I became that net for my children. I hope my love is strong enough to catch them when they fall.