swallows

I walk down Orchard Street, making my way back to the F train, and pass this store I’ve obviously passed a hundred times but never noticed. That happens often in New York City. Cool, edgy young women stand on the street, texting and chatting with one another. I keep looking back as I walk on, but then something tells me to turn around. I wasn’t sure what kind of store it was, but I knew I needed to know. I turn back and linger for a moment to read the sign, “Grit N Glory Tattoo and Piercing Shop,” a rock n roll lifestyle boutique. I walk in, nervous, as if I don’t belong among these cool, young girls, but by walking through the door, I step right into my past, literally back in time, reminded of my younger self. 80s and 90s Concert posters from Twisted Sister to Bon Jovi cover the walls, mirroring my teen room and the concerts I’d frequented. Buttons, Piercings, ripped black jeans, every single thing, me. I identify so hard. At once I know this is a sign.

I stare at all of the beautiful tattoo art on the other side of the room as the salesperson approaches me. I tell her I’ve been thinking of getting a tattoo. I’m just not sure what to get. I’m mad at myself as I feel emotional for the third time today. What the fuck? I can’t break down here. I already had to deal with my doctor not wanting to give me a prescription for my depression and anxiety without me giving her every fucking detail of what’s going on in my life. I didn’t tell her. It took 2 hours, but I finally got the meds. Then I ran to my hair appointment across town, and got all emotional because my stylist is pregnant and found out she’s having a boy. I love her and am so excited for her. I have no idea why it bothered me today to hear her talk about her unborn baby boy . . . It just made me think of how I wasn’t able to do that when I was pregnant with Royce.  I urge myself to get my shit together.

“Usually you need an appointment. We get booked up pretty quickly,” she says.

A young girl emerges from the shadows and says so softly I can barely hear her words. “I’m free.”

I examine her. She wears all black with chunky black boots. She has a silver nose ring in her right nostril and a diamond piercing above her lips. She has dark black hair with sea-green ends. Her eyebrows dark and thin, her eyes dark and piercing with winged eyeliner, a face, pale and small with the most perfect pink lips I’ve ever seen, she looks like a doll, not quite real, a look that mirrors the moment. There’s a softness in her face, despite her edgy appearance. I like that contradiction; it’s real. I nod as the clerk tells me that Kelly can take care of me.

“Do you already have a tattoo in mind?” Kelly asks.

“Ha. Sort of . . . “ And then it happens. I can’t find my voice. I feel like a fool. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.

Kelly moves in closer to me. “No, no, it’s completely fine. Getting a tattoo is an emotional experience. Trust me, I know. All of my clients have stories attached to their tattoos. That’s what I love about my job. You want to move over to the couch and chat? You can tell me what you’re thinking.” She places her arm on my shoulder and guides me to the plush velvet couch in the corner. It’s oversized, comfortable, and private. It feels safe.

“When I was sixteen, I got pregnant, and the boy left me, and my parents forced me to give my baby up for adoption.” I’m crying, trying to talk between deep breaths. “Six months ago, my son found me.” Kelly pulls me to her and hugs me as we both cry.

“How old is he?” 

“30.”

“Wow.”

I can see the weight of my story touching her. We talk a bit more about Royce and me. She asks questions; I answer. Then she asks what I’m thinking for a tattoo. I know that I want something that represents him returning to me, proving everyone wrong all these years that he didn’t belong with me. I want an R initial and I want emerald green, his birthstone, coloring for some of it. I thought of vines and breaking through those. 

Kelly’s eyes light up and she says, “Have you ever heard of the swallows in Capistrano?” 

I shake my head. 

“I have a story for you.”

Every year, the swallows in Mission San Juan Capistrano return to their original nests and families. They never forget where they come from; without fail, the birds always return home. The story of my reunion with Royce reminds her of the swallows. I love it! She disappears into the back and spends about 20 minutes drawing a sketch idea for the tattoo. When she emerges and shows me the drawing, I’m in love. We talk and incorporate a few of my ideas and she comes up with a few other things. 

“I never thought I’d get a tattoo of a bird. I love it, but definitely make it a badass bird.” 

Kelly laughs. “Of course.” She goes into the back again for a few minutes and returns with the final drawing. We both know, this is it. “Let’s get started,” She says.

Next I need to decide where I want the tattoo inked. Placement is a big decision. Kelly guides me to the tattoo parlor and stands me in front of a gigantic golden full length framed mirror. She walks away, allowing me time to decide and to be sure where I want it placed. I think about my shoulder, my back.  I’m startled by the person I see staring back at me. I see a sixteen-year old girl with big hazel green eyes. She looks small, lost. And all I can think of is how I want to save her. 

I turn to Kelly. “I just don’t know.”

Kelly walks over and examines my other tattoos. “What does this represent?” She points to the tattoo on the inside of my left arm, roman numerals that spell out January 19, 2011, the day we moved to New York City. “My daughter wanted this for her 17th birthday, but not just for her she wanted her dad and me to get the same tattoo. So we got our family tattoo for her birthday.”

“That’s cool as hell,” Kelly’s boyfriend Charlie says. He’s hanging out at the studio, helping her. 

“It is,” Kelly says. “So maybe this is your family arm.”

I smile and nod. My family arm. I like the sound of that. Kelly plays around with placement. All of the other artists, including owner and tattoo icon Megan Massacre, are involved in the process, offering feedback. Kelly has shared my story with the other artists, with my permission of course, and everyone is touched by it. They’re all rooting for me, this me and the sixteen-year-old me; it feels good. I place my elbow up on the padded table and get as comfortable as possible. I know it will take at least an hour, maybe two. It feels like I have all the time in the world.

I savor the pain. The image comes to life as if it’s always been there, buried beneath the surface, as Kelly chisels away the debris and overgrowth, performing a metaphorical archeological dig, discovering or perhaps rewriting my history. My arm burns; I feel alive. I watch as she adds the colors like a true artist, painstakingly precise, a dab, a streak, a smudge, bringing the swallow to life, a small bird arching his delicate wings as he forces his way through the emerald green vines where he’s headed home and close to my heart. When she lays down her tools, she studies her work, a beam of light spreading across her face. Everyone crowds around to see the final product. The room stands still as if the air has been sucked out. I close my eyes for a brief moment, breathing in this unbelievable energy. And just like that the music seems to start back up and everyone goes back to their stations with the energy of sharing that moment still pulsating throughout the room

Charlie hugs me. He gets it probably better than anyone here. We all have stories. He tells me pieces of his story, and how he never knew his dad. He has to hear second-hand about who his dad was in life, and he sees photos where he’s clearly missing from the picture, missing out on his father. Having Charlie’s approval means a lot to me. I don’t know it then, but soon he’ll reappear in my life, supporting Royce and me in an unbelievable and beautiful way. He urges Kelly to take a photo while it’s fresh. We spend a few minutes “staging.” It has to be just right. Kelly takes the picture of the tattoo while Charlie stretches my skin so it’s completely vibrant and visible. He encourages me to send the picture to Royce. I do. He instantly texts back, “Did you just get this?” I answer yes. I watch the text bubbles gurgle as he’s typing back, a simple thing that still amazes me . . . I’m texting with my son. My heart races. Will he think it’s weird? Too much? Too little? His text pops up on my screen: “That’s Badass.” With a capital B. I hold up my phone to Charlie and Kelly. We all laugh and embrace right in the middle of the sidewalk on Orchard. I know I’m meant to be here at this moment with these people. And the tattoo, well, it’s simply the beginning of me telling my story. I exhale and start walking back the way I came.