Ink...

Ink…
The needle hits my skin at 300 beats a second, injecting black, purple, green, blue and yellow ink permanently into the skin that resides over my hip bone. I’m at Sacred Heart Tattoo in Little Five Points, my favorite artist, Sten is hovered over my exposed flesh working away at the image that will eventually be two ladybugs flying toward each other. The blue and yellow one is Rob and the purple and green on is me.
“Are you sure Rob wants to be a ladybug?” Kate laughed yesterday.
“Of course he does!” I giggled. “He called me ladybug, and blue is his favorite color.”
Years ago my Swedish buddy Robert told me the colors blue and yellow (colors of the Swedish flag) were “happy colors.” That has stuck with me since. I was happiest when in Rob’s company. The shirt he wore the day we met was blue and yellow and I couldn’t help but smile.
Sten and I don’t talk much this time. When I talk my stomach moves so I sit there and let my mind both wander and examine the pain that’s going on.
“Why do w enjoy the tattooing process so much?” I do eventually ask. “I mean, this shit hurts. Why do it?”
“I dunno. When you think about it, people have been expressing themselves on their skin for thousands of years. It sets you apart from the rest of the world. It show how committed you are to that expression.”
I nod. All my tattoos have meaning to them. I don’t share those meanings with anyone. Rob didn’t even know. This one of course is for him and extra special.
I close my eyes. Sometimes the pain is so sharp the skin jumps involuntarily. It’s a process I have to sit through, much like this grief. In order to get what I want, I have to sit still and feel it, then it’ll heal.
My eyes are jolted open and I find myself trying to breathe. My hands are clasped under my chest, the pinky of my left hand digging into a rib to distract my brain from the pain on my hip. I want to reach out and grab Sten’s hair. I stare at it though, how each tiny hair has it’s own little place. I think about Rob’s hair and how much I loved running my fingers through it. My eyes close again.
Earlier that morning I had to meeting boss lady Jessica and Monique for my half year review. My numbers were good and I got a raise. Jessica tells me what an asset I am and it fills my eyes with tears. Everything makes me cry nowadays. She asks if there’s anything I’d like to talk about or anything I need. Not with work. I love my job and have no complaints. Monique tells me she bought “Do Dead People Watch You Shower?” and was flipping through it when she came across a question someone asked about how do the dead show us they’re there? The end of her reply was “They like to use frogs, turtles and sometimes birds or butterflies to show us they’re here with us from some reason.” My heart skips a beat when I think about the turtle I saw in the road on Thursday. Makes me smile.
“Alright, hop up and take a look at that,” Sten’s voice brings me back to the present. I gently roll off the table and over to the mirror where there are two perfect bugs etched on to my skin.
“Perfect!” I squeal.
“Good.”
Sten bandages me up and sends me on my way. I walk across the street to the car. I know good and well that consuming soy lattes, staring at pictures, buying a diamond band and putting a tenth tattoo on my body in honor of Rob will not bring him back, but it helps to have these little reminders of him with me. It’s something tangible I can look at or hang on to because his body isn’t here for me to squeeze anymore.