I swore I’d never take off the very first ring from a boy I loved. When I did, it revealed the tell-tale band of oxidized green. The mark left by imitation precious metal lasted longer than the mark made by love’s early imitation.
In 5th grade biology dissection class, perched atop the science table to declare my defiance, I accidentally sat in a puddle of formaldehyde. It ate through my Jordache jeans and left a quarter-sized, red poochy spot on my bottom that lasted for weeks.
Female life is stained by blood, the predictable and the not. So too, red wine, ink, breast milk, spit-up, intestinal byproducts projected unexpectedly, the emissions of loved ones we coax to climax.
Every marking has grown fainter until invisible, my skin returns to its pinkish tone long before the sting of the stain has faded.
So much of what matters to me has faded over time, washed out like stains on my favorite jeans, forgotten despite my vow to remember forever the look in someone’s eye, the feel of a perfect touch, the bits of moonlight through the leaves, the inside jokes, the words that declare a love that will never fade, the taste of that night’s red wine and salty chips. I want all of these memories to stay vibrant, to withstand the effects of time, the impact of becoming a story. Alas, I can no longer distinguish what happened from what I tell about what happened.
I carry only one permanent body marking: a faint, small horizontal line, the tiniest border crossing through which my son entered this world. No one – and nothing – that has slid in or out me, no matter how long it stayed, no matter how rhythmic or deep, how urgent or patient, has had such a lasting impact as the boy who came through where there was no natural portal.
I have no other story indelibly inked on my skin; I’ve seen too many purple registration numbers on pale, withering forearms. For me, ink is my ink. Writers are tattoo artists who keep their skin pristine. I say on the page what others say with a butterfly permanently resting on a shoulder blade, a lady-bug forever gracing a big toe, a magnificent falcon spreading across a back, a teardrop, or even the hand-scripted name of a beloved.
If I didn’t have this blank page, I might have to put words and images on my body. I’d memorialize “I am hungry for you” and “I want to eat you,” coiled and braided in flowing script around my left ankle.
I’d paint the sound of my son’s laughter in rippling waves across my belly.
I’d carve my lion’s dark eyes and long lashes on my forearm, where I could see them every day.
I’d hide a tiny velvety wine-red cactus flower, a surprise for the one who lifts my hair and tongues the oh-so-sweet spot at the base of my neck, my tough-on-the-outside guy whose body I traverse in search of his sweet zone.
Without this page carving memories in permanent stone, I’d graffiti up and down my body the little murmurs, the hints, the phrases, the sighs, the sweet joy of being loved and devoured by a son, lusted after by a lover, the name and the dark eyes of the one who nearly growled for me, waiting for me, wanting me, wanting more, wanting a life where there is no limit to what we want.