Page 135 of My Family

I laugh.

"I want that more than anything."

Something inside my chest breaks open.

In a good way.

I press the tattoo strip against his finger, then hold his hand up and lick the paper.

"Disgusting," he says. But he's laughing.

I suck on his finger until the paper is good and wet, hold the strip in place, and after about twenty seconds, peel it back slowly.

A little ring of connected leaves wraps around his finger.

It's actually pretty perfect.

He holds his hand up and stares at it like he can't believe it's there.

"I'm going to be sad when it starts to fade," he says.

"Then we draw it again."

He looks at me.

"Every time it fades."

His expression softens.

"Daddy, you're a poet."

I kiss him.

Then we lie back down, and he keeps looking at his finger.

"But you need one too," he says suddenly.

Before I can answer, he gets up, goes under his bunk where he keeps his things, and comes back with a Sharpie.

Of course he has a Sharpie.

He takes my hand and starts drawing an intricate ring around my finger, curling lines and little details like something from an old engraving.

"That's yours," he says when he's done.

I look at it.

Then at him.

I can’t believe how fucking happy I feel at that moment.

Terrified about everything else.

But happy.

I pull him in by the back of the neck.

"Help, you're going to kill me," he complains.