Grief and Ink
Throwing Ink at the
Devil
Victorians had arm bands.
Scarlett had a black dress.
No Parties. No Dancing.
People knew.
Instead, we have footprints on shoulders,
dates on forearms,
and faces on biceps.
Some choose stickers on windshields.
Otherwise, how would anyone know?
People should know to tiptoe around you,
handle you with gentle grace.
Strangers should be able to recognize,
to treat you as one in mourning.
Instead, we clock in for work the next week,
our grief as invisible as the ghost at our kitchen table.
Stuff down food. Drown in screens.
You won’t find a safe public place to scream.
No professional mourning jobs at the city gate.
No wailing behind your neighbor's funeral procession.
Everyone just wants you to be normal.
And so we dip needles in our skin to remember,
to recall, to give thanks, to make our pain visible.
“They have to acknowledge my loss if it’s on my arm.”
Because when we lose a public period of mourning,
some of us grieve forever.
~Melissa McCrory Hatcher, ©2017
Last year we got tattoos. It was such an important, necessary step on our grief journey.
(And if that's not a sufficient answer for our living children, we'll just go get their names, too! Lol)
Did it hurt? Are you kidding? Of course it hurt! While nothing compared to natural childbirth, yes, it hurt. But I didn't cry, and it seemed quite appropriate and symbolic that these particular marks would hurt.
As everyone around us starts to forget, we keep his memory close to us. We proudly wear these signs of loss but also hope.
As everyone around us starts to forget, we keep his memory close to us. We proudly wear these signs of loss but also hope.