My first ink experience was 26 years ago.
Will never forget my parent’s faces, over a tiny butterfly on ankle.
Dad would say ‘do you want to be a walking newspaper’
After 18 months of metastatic cancer and home hospice he parted to a dimension of familiarity, lush greenery filling his lungs with oxygen.
I grieved, and edited every square inch of my arm, as my mental health spiraled.
At times I regret the crowdedness of colors.
A tabloid – I suppose.
Arrows & Metaphors 
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