Alexander turned eight this year. That means I get another tattoo. I get one every year after his birthday. He and I compile a group of his drawings and vote on the best choice for my arm. My upper left arm is his gallery. My first tattoo was a shark he drew when he was three, and a squid from year four; a year later I added a caterpillar from age five. I had an appointment to get years six and seven tattooed in December. I was with Andrea in November buying ketchup at Walmart when my tattoo guy called to confirm my appointment in two weeks. She's not a big fan of tattoos, so I tried to explain to her that it was MY body. Frankly, sometimes I think she wants my body, but that is for another post. She said, what if I am chosen to be the donor! After a tattoo, I wouldn't be able to even donate blood for a year. I answered her with the answer that my mom had given me. Andrea, I'm a A type. She is relentless, in a good way, mind-blowingly .... what's another word for relentless? Passionate. So I made a phone call and cancelled. Here is what I would have had on my forearm. From the 1940’s Flight 19 squadron that was reported missing in the Bermuda Triangle, while on patrol off the Florida coast.
The woman in the photograph with me and my guns is my BFF Melissa, aka Brando, aka Roommate. She is in nursing school and has been an invaluable source of information and support. She gets her own entry.
Posted by Amy
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