Tattoos

The day I got my tattoo was a marvelous day. The sun was out, and a calm November chill hung in the air. Lisa and I parked in the brand new parking garage downtown, joking and laughing and reminiscing as we walked down the street toward the best tattoo parlor in town. I was free, happy, determined to get this tattoo; my first mature act of rebellion and remembrance.
I wore comfortable clothes which all of a sudden seemed to big for me as I walked up the creaking stairs into the waiting room. We waited for Kim Foreman, I had memorized her name, to come and get us. Butterflies had started in my stomach.
"Nervous?" Lisa asked.
"I'd be crazy if I wasn't," I said, smiling wryly.
Finally it was time. Kim led us into the empty back room. Light streamed in through the windows, making the white walls, the white tables, the silver lining of the black chairs seem even brighter. I had to change chairs three times, my short torso being concealed by the back of the chairs each time. The fourth chair was one reserved for lower back or full back tattoos. This too was too big, but it did the job.
I took off my shirt, revealing the camisole underneath, and slipped off the long earrings that tickled the tops of my shoulders. Kim pressed the print to my back, leaving a reddish impression on my tan skin. I could see all of this in the mirror. I saw her open the sanitary needles, pour the ink, and glanced nervously at Lisa who sat in the corner, giving me a reassuring look.
"Just do it," I said, prepared for excruciating pain.
The needle hit, almost like a prickling, tickling sensation. I relaxed. The numbness took over.
Thoughts flew through my head. The past year had been surreal. My dad's nearing kidney transplant put on hold after the stroke. The threat of cancer put on hold after the infection. The following coma finally put on hold after the heart attack. The funeral, the unkind mortuary workers, the hoardes of people coming to pay their respects.
The ink, the constant punctures of the needles, spread heat through my shoulder. The pain increased slightly when she went over my shoulder blade, or colored his dark hair. I took pleasure in this pain. I knew my father had suffered in his last days, unable to communicate, only able to react. This was as close as I was going to get to really understanding what he went through.
I could feel the familiar form taking shape on my back. The sharp nose, the strong jaw, the slight wave in the hair; all things we shared. Finally, it was done. Feeling the blood pulsing in my shoulder I slid off the chair and walked over to the mirror.
In that moment I could not know that in a few short days when my mother came home that she would look through my checkbook. I could not know that she would cry, my brother would cry, claiming that I had done something neither of them could forgive. I could not know that this would alter my relationship with the both of them forever.
In that moment all I saw was the smiling face of my father, his shoulders swathed in the robes of a hindu saint. His eyes crinkled slightly, his hair thick, his face kind. His head was tilted slightly to the right, and the raised red of the tattoo gave his face a look of vigor. Beneath him, in numbers, plain and clean, "1959-2007"

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I wrote this over a year ago for the livejournal community all_unwritten.
Prompt 132 - Tattoos.

Nothing great...but it was good to write.