A Sharp Dismissal
A young man with a thick beard and a leather vest stands over an elderly veteran, pointing at a small, simple cross tattoo on the man’s arm. He laughs loudly, the sound bouncing off the walls of the small tattoo studio, and gestures dismissively at the ink.
He tells the older man that his grandmother has larger tattoos than that. The veteran sits perfectly still in the black chair, his hands resting on his knees, his expression unmoving as the younger man continues his loud mockery.
The tattoo artist stops his work. He sets down his machine, pulls off his blue nitrile gloves, and takes off his glasses. He looks directly at the younger man, his face tightening.
The Weight of Names
The tattoo artist says that the small tattoo has four names on it. He asks the younger man if he knows what those names actually mean. The air in the shop shifts as the artist explains that these were the men who died right next to the veteran in combat.
The younger man’s mouth stays slightly open. The laughter stops. He slowly reaches up and takes off his brown beanie, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as the reality of the ink becomes clear.
The veteran speaks softly, explaining that he got one name for every man he could not bring home. He tells the room that he never needed a big, flashy design. He simply needed a way to never forget the faces and the lives that were lost alongside his own.
A Promise Kept
The veteran leans forward, gesturing to the empty space under the names on his arm. He explains that he visits the studio every year on the same day to add the specific date of each man’s passing.
He has been coming to this shop for eleven years to fulfill this private duty. The younger man stares at the veteran’s arm, his hand moving to his own chest in a slow, rhythmic motion.
He looks down at the floor, then back at the veteran, his face turning solemn. He apologizes quietly, telling the veteran that he did not understand what he was looking at.
The veteran looks at the artist and asks if he can stay and watch. The artist picks up his machine again, the low hum of the needle filling the quiet room as he prepares for the next date.
The veteran looks at the younger man and tells him that as long as he is still breathing, he will be back in that chair every single year.
Send this to someone who understands the importance of never forgetting those we have lost.