He had never gotten a tattoo...he'd thought about it, contemplated it, researched the designs and the colors. He knew many people who possessed the skin art...and even found a certain beauty in those confident enough to decorate themselves with ink.
Part of his reluctance was the permanence...despite newer ways to erase or change the original he felt that his commitment wasn't quite there...he found it an interesting conundrum.
They had spoken about getting simultaneous versions...they debated what they would design...letters, colors...where they would allow the skin to be touched...revealed.
In the end they did nothing...not because there wasn't a desire...rather he thought that there was nothing to be added to him that would ever come close to reminding him of her. It was that simple.
She was a long hallway of art in his mind, a timeline of interactions and touches, sometimes the art shifted and sometimes it gathered dust...the hallway easily a hundred miles long, filled with images and prints like a feature length film unrolled and laid end to end. Such a hallway would be lit with candles, to soften the frames, and capture the exact details...sometimes there was no light at all...
She had built this hallway in bits and pieces, starting small and hesitantly. There were gaps...wall space unadorned. Then a bunch together. This went on and on. Sometimes the art was small...like a cryptic handwritten note...other times it was large, occupying the whole wall with its bold strokes and combinations. Each one had meaning...history. Each seemed to build upon each other but sometimes there were departures and backsteps...crude art that evolved into complex.
He could visit it whenever he wanted...daily, hourly...nightly.
And when departing he always blew out whatever candle was providing the light in the hallway...and even in complete darkness he could still see the entire collection...but mostly he could feel it.
Could never forget it.
No comments:
Post a Comment