Written Works

​I remember the first time my mom told me she had a tattoo. Of a moon. My mom had a moon resting under the curve of her waistband, a little crescent. A sliver of surprise in my mind. I remember the blue ink that was faded green around the edges. The kind of color a penny grows as it's exposed to the outside air and oxidizes, except my moms tattoo never sees the light of day. It is tucked away. It is a funny tattoo because she hides the celestial fingernail as if it is a blemish or ugly scar instead of a beautiful swoop of lines that takes your mind up to the stars and makes you realize that the bathroom towels are embroidered with the same silver lining so that when you are getting undressed to take a shower and you shed the sweater that never felt like home you suddenly see a map of constellations on your skin. You have no planets or mythologies living on you but you can wrap your hips in the bathroom towels and imagine what it must be like to walk around with a secret. She told me never to tell her sisters and especially never her mom because they wouldn’t see it the same. She said there was no reason to spoil their image of perfection because as long as they loved her she can carry her signature. With my eyes open wide enough to take in her fingers tracing a library bedtime book she picked to read because I begged, I asked her why she had gotten it done in the first place if it was so dangerous that it had to be kept like our pet cat under wraps because our tenant agreement specified we couldn’t keep anything with claws, scales, or snouts indoors. My mom did not seem upset but she did smile in a way I knew I mistepped. From my recollection my mom talked about the context: the time she and her friends all decided. Just like that. Just because she had control and it seemed cool. I did not want that to be the end. That moon's smile seemed to hold more than a youthful trend and I was fascinated by the way it changed her—no longer delicate and all padded with a perfect halo. Her ink was a relic. Selected not by chance out of the discounted design book as she felt adrenaline creep into her ears and flipped to the back of the book to make a quick selection. The moon was more. It was something stuck in between her ribs and dislodged as she finally took in air. It was a history of girls watching the moon plump and sag in the passing seasons. And girls hiding from the sun. And them dancing under the deep endless dark. And thinking about the time in their future when they might wear their legs like women. After she showed her mark I danced naked under steaming water. Hours in the early morning were the only place for me. The moon made me shed all my layers. Coats and jackets, and makeup, and sweaters, excuses and courteous smiles and alligator wiles. Something snapped into place and I emerged. Metamorphosis.