Something That Will Stay

So, in what is perhaps yet another sign of the onset of dementia, I am thinking about getting a tattoo. That I'm contemplating such a bizarre action is all, of course, Owen's fault. To say that Owen is into tattoos is to put it mildly. And he was home for six weeks for his Christmas break, which gave him lots of time to indoctrinate me. I'll admit I'm easily indoctrinated these days--the result, perhaps, of menopause or general aging, or maybe incipient insanity, or who knows, too much acupuncture or Sauvignon Blanc or my inability to exercise (still wearing post-foot surgery boot). Whatever the cause, I find myself becoming more and more amoeba-like, just a glop of protoplasm, slipping and slithering in and out of various shapes, no clear center, no fixed boundaries, no firmness of body or purpose or routine. So? A tattoo? slllliiiiippp, ssssllliiitherrr, ssssllllllimmmme, oh why not?

But just a little one. Just a teeny tiny tattoo. A hedgehog. A very English hedgehog. In memory of a delightful day at a hedgehog sanctuary in Devon when we lived in England and the boys were small and I was their Mum.

Owen's back at college in Oregon. He hopes to spend the summer up there as well. And probably all future summers. He'll be back next Christmas, but never again for several weeks--his lengthy break this year was an anomoly, an unexpected benefit of his fall semester internship. So, this was it, really. He'll be back for visits, but I doubt he'll ever live here, with us, with me, again.

Maybe I'll make it a great big hedgehog.