Tattooed Memories
With Joe’s head in my lap, I see a patch of bare skin spotted with freckles surrounded by his silver hair. He embraces my legs like a pillow. My toes are the only part visible from where I sit.
I need a pedicure.
He doesn’t move for quite a while. I stroke his hair and scratch his back.
He sighs.
Moments like these bring tears to my eyes. Simple gestures are tattooed in my mind—permanent memories.
My eighteen-month-old grandson calls out as he toddles towards me with his arms outstretched. “Grandma,” he says again as he lays his head on my shoulder.
His six-year-old cousin and I have this thing we do.
“Do you know what I love the most about you?” I ask.
“Everything,” he replies.
“Do you know what I love most of all?” I continue.
“That I’m your little Max,” he responds.
How did I get so lucky to be loved like this?
Our dog, Dasher, isn’t quiet about his love. He greets me with a wagging tail, even if I’ve only been gone briefly. When Joe comes home, he goes crazy and cries out in delight. I know he loves us both, but it’s funny how differently he treats us.
I don’t remember feeling much unconditional love during my teens and twenties. Things were so turbulent then. My family was a mess, and my crazy oldest sister controlled it. Her behavior kept us all on edge.
Those were the days when I tried my best to stay off my parents’ radar. When I graduated from college, my dad handed me a check and said, “Buy a car or use it for rent, but don’t come home.”
So I didn’t.
Looking back, I have no idea why I resented my father for years. He wanted me to be independent. He’d already paid for me to go to college, and the check he handed me encouraged me to strike out on my own. I never actually wanted to go back to living at home anyway.
Now I see it was my father’s way of showing me love.
I fell in love a couple of times when I was young, often for the wrong reasons. The first boy was so handsome and sexy. He made me feel things I’d never felt before. But he was very jealous and bossy. It was the kind of love that was full of conditions. Then he hurt me, and I cut him loose.
This is the point in the story where I could write a whole essay about my first marriage. But I won’t because he gave me my sons, and that’s when I fell in love harder than ever.
A few days after giving birth to my first son, I sat in the rocking chair with him on my shoulder. He’d been crying most of the day, and we were both exhausted. I closed my eyes for a moment and tried to relax, but his screams were relentless.
Then, it suddenly got quiet. I opened my eyes and saw his downy, soft hair moving gently in the breeze from the ceiling fan. He was silenced because his tiny thumb had made it to his mouth. His whole body relaxed, as did mine. I remember that moment thirty-eight years ago, like it was yesterday.
My boys have saved my life more than once. Being a mom was the best job, and I loved practically every minute. The days were exhausting, but the results were rewarding. They turned out to be amazing men and loving fathers.
It warms my heart to see their involvement with their kids and wives. They seem to share everything, and they’re so patient and kind.
Lately, I’ve felt a quiet yet profound appreciation for the people around me. I’m noticing more little things about my relationships and letting go of as much of the negative stuff as possible.
Everyone has stories about how they’ve been wronged in their lifetime. Those injustices probably can’t be fixed for a multitude of reasons. Or their nemesis has died.
So why hold on to those memories and feelings?
“Why do I keep hitting myself in the head with a hammer? Because it feels so good when I stop.” ~Ellen Pompeo as Meredith Grey in Grey’s Anatomy.
It does feel good to stop. Holding on to unloving, sad memories of the people who’ve wronged me is painful. And most of those people are gone from my life.
Or I’ve forgiven them. That feels good, too.
Life’s too short to hang on to misery.
I’d rather sit on the sofa with my husband’s head in my lap and worry about getting a pedicure.