I got a second tattoo. Mostly because after getting the first one you get a sort of high and also a general feeling that it’s all alone on your arm. It’s a medieval engraving-style tattoo of a sun and a moon, inspired largely by a tacky wall decoration my grandmother gave my parents when they moved into their new house.
The wall decorations hung in our kitchen for years and, after a redecoration, they disappeared. I assumed they were simply thrown out, but apparently my mom had kept them. She had no place for them but felt bad about throwing them away and offered them to me. I accepted, knowing that Zach had mentioned multiple times he’d always liked the maximalist aesthetic. I thought they’d go well behind his desk setup, and hung them there, between two kitschy portraits bought at a local art gallery.
To tell the truth I’ve always hated the idea that my grandmother never got to see my grow into an adult. The notion that she never got to see, or approve of, any of my partners bums me out. In this small way there’s at least some connective tissue there: some legacy of her is still attached to our relationship.
For what it’s worth, I know she would have loved Zach. But, truthfully again there are very few people who don’t love Zach.
My brother mocked the initial idea (lovingly). “You mean that thing she bought at Walmart?” He asks. But I take no offense, I know it’s not the price of a thing that gives it value.