Tattoo

Apparently, there is some rite of passage when you become a widow involving tattoos. It’s like an unspoken rule in the book of “Widowhood: The First Year.”

Let me make this clear, I wasn’t opposed to getting tattoos before, but it was going to take a LOT of convincing for me to do that.

Until now.

The weird part of this whole journey is that things I used to think were out of the question are now suddenly just everyday things. Like today, I just went and got a tattoo. By myself. Did it hurt? Sure did. Did it hurt as bad as losing the love of your life? Nope…and NOTHING ever will. Luke had a lose your inhibitions effect on people, and I’ve never felt more of that essence than I do right now. Must be his spirit or something, because normal Jayme would’ve put a hard stop to this. And fast.

He would’ve been so proud of me. For the first time in three weeks, I thought about what he would’ve said to me or about this whole thing, and I smiled. I really smiled. I thought about his laugh and his dimples on his cheeks, and I smiled. I pictured his reaction when I took a shot of whiskey after I was finished (thanks, bro), and I smiled. I pictured those hazel eyes giving me a wink of approval, and I smiled. I looked down at the finished product, still raw and numb like the pain of grief. I blinked back inevitable tears, and I smiled.

That kind of love is like a tattoo: permanent and beautiful. Sure it stings, but the reward stays with you forever, no matter what.

My sweet Rocketman, I will never stop trying to make you proud. I promise I’ll live the life you didn’t get to finish, and I’ll honor you the whole way through. I miss you more than ever.

Cheers to you, babe. Play on.