Last Friday the 13th, I was a mess. I had just started school; I was getting used to schedules and rules and people who didn’t know I was broken. I was making an effort and trying to be a person in society again. I’m always trying.
Last Friday the 13th was also the point of equidistance — as equally spaced between the day that Adrian died as that day was from the “beginning” (first day of my last menstrual period) of my pregnancy with him. I thought it fitting, then, that this was the day my tattoo artist had available.
I found her through a fluke. She didn’t often work in my area, but her name came up on two separate occasions. When we met, it felt right.
I also found Engrave Ink, a company that processes cremation ashes into tattoo ink. They have a special process, and did everything with care.
And on 13 April 2018, a day that will always be memorable to me, I had Adrian’s footprints permanently embedded on my ribs. Embedded within me. He lives beneath my skin.
(Photos used with permission)