A Quiet Memory

I ask to see the tattoo on her thumb as she punches my ticket. She hesitatingly shows me a rose with two thorns etched in the wrinkled webbing between her pointer finger and thumb. She says slowly, "Its old, almost 40 years now." Wiith a sad smile she turns and walks down the corridor of strangers off to live their lives. I wish I had told her that tattoos like memories and love, never die. That we show our tattoos and scars with the pride that can only be attained by the few who are no longer scared of themselves.