It was right before the millenium turned in calendar years that I sat alone and felt how badly I wanted to get tattoos on the palms of my hands. Wings.
“You can’t do that.”
“The ink will fall out.”
“They won’t stay.”
“It will hurt.”
One person knew how to tattoo palms, and he gave me the wings I asked for.
I had to hold my hand open, to keep it from balling, flinching into a closed fist.
The wings have not faded in the 15 years that this ink has been inside my hands.