I happen to
belong to a one-person religious sect that holds there are no tattoos in
heaven. Naturally, my daughter wants a tattoo.
A skull? No.
Angel? No. Devil?
No. Something with wings? No. Something
with roses? No. Barbed wire?
No. Boyfriend’s name? I don’t think so. My name?
Hell hasn’t frozen over.
But Clare texted
a picture of what it could look like—a small five-sided figure above an ankle. “Home plate has a lot of meaning for me,” she
told Michele yesterday.
You decide.
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