Badge of Courage

Friends have asked me if it was painful, and I never know how to answer that question. Like childbirth, it was the kind of pain that was beside the point, pain in the service of something I wanted. Dave drew the bridge, prepared the ink and needles and started scratching the image into my skin. The edges of the bridge curl over my bone and in those spots the scratching felt more like cutting. I had gotten to know needles over the previous two years, so this part of the experience was at least familiar.

When at last Dave was finished, I looked down at my newly, indelibly marked ankle. He had done a beautiful job. Ranit and I went for coffee afterward, and I admired the result. My tattoo is perfect, because it is mine, my own private war memorial.

Lewis lives in Washington, D.C.

© 2007