She slowly makes her way down my leg.
Groping and grasping.
I’m glad I shaved my legs or this would be a painful journey.
Her tiny hands were working hard.
She thrusts her small body inch by inch.
On a mission after my pink toenails it would seem.
She finds them and plays with them a little and then her chubby fingers discover the two small black stars on top of my right foot.
She looks back up at me as if to ask for help. “They don’t come off,” I say knowing she won’t understand.
She traces the stars one by one. Her touch is tender and the sweetness of the act makes tear up.
Someday I’d have to tell her the significance of the stars, who they are for, the story behind the tattoos. My stomach turns to ice.
Maybe I’ll be able to avoid it and her brother will tell her before I have the chance. I think about how that conversation might go: So, you know how we never see mom’s parents? They died. She doesn’t like to talk about it.
It should come from me I decide.
And it will.
