Ink... Everyone Has An Addiction. Some Just Wear Theirs On Their Sleeve.

He let me go with him.

Only one person in the room with you. It's the rule.
Kinda like Post op. surgery.
And kinda like a surgeon with his scalpel, displaying his craft...
But different.
Different in that most do not want to go under the knife and do not save up $$$ so they can make an appointment,  counting down the days.
Funny, the choices we humans make.

No one wants to meet my husband professionally.
He works with a scalpel. You are hopefully drugged and asleep when he picks up his scalpel.
It's a last choice, the pain becoming so bad you need relief.

This procedure, the boy has chosen. A choice for pain, discomfort, no anesthesia allowed, probably considered sacrilege.

He let me go with him. He asked me to not share anything negative.
I assured him that was not my purpose.

We went in. Plush leather sofas, interesting art work, good music, hardwoods, copper tables, nice smells.
Nice.

We waited. He filled out paperwork.
A return visit for him.
A first for me.

A chubby guy introduced himself, and went over the design the boy had provided.
An anchor, rope twisting through, words below... VERITAS

Last year he created a design...   L
                                                GOD
                                                   V
                                                   E

He wears his heart on his sleeve, or his God on his shoulder.  It is beautiful.
This one he will wear on his arm.
The truth is we all have our addictions. Some of us wear them on our sleeves, while others hide theirs behind closed doors, eyes, thinking no one knows our secret.
I am not suggesting tattoos are addictions for most. But, for some... probably.
But this is not about what we pick to soothe our soul, fill the hole in our heart, the ache in our gut.

Chubby guy calls us back.
He shaves my boy's arm, cleans it, asks some questions.
The boy asks how long he's been tattooing. I speak up, "It's his first day." He offers,"two weeks"... he was joking. I think.
The boy laughs.

He asks if the boy is ready.
Wait, you didn't ask me.
The needle goes into his arm. No flinching.

The hubby doesn't know this is happening today. He knows about it... but he is not a fan.
He is however, a fan of the boy.
Remember, he is that surgeon you don't want to meet. 
Marking one's body on purpose, he doesn't understand.
But he loves. Simple. Grace. Love...without judging.
He is that man.

I am at peace and thankful the boy trusts me enough to invite.
Michael Jackson is now playing on the radio.
Early Jackson Five actually... ABC.
Funny.
Not what I would expect at a Nashville tattoo parlor.

Things seem to be going well.
I watch the black ink, staining my boys skin.
Dark, permanent, unforgiving.

We are all inked up, some you can see, some stamped on our hearts, leaving us bruised but private.
Maybe when we are willing to put it out there, writing on our sleeves... we open ourselves to others.
A willingness, a desire to communicate.
When we ink ourselves we are asking others to look deeper into our lives.
I like that.

For my son, it is an anchor... Veritas. We are all anchored in something. It may as well be truth.

If you are inked, what does it mean to you?
What was the decision to wear it on your body and share it?
Will you share it?