Diez. Dios. Dio. Piedad.

Mark flew out for the long weekend, bringing his tattoo kit with him. I had him set up in the library after we rolled up the big fuzzy white rug. He put a big huge letter X just above my belly button. I've never had much of a want for stomach tattoos. Mostly because when I was pregnant I gained fifty pounds each time and also they hurt like the dickens (stomach tattoos AND babies, I mean). But now I have a huge hollow X filled with beautiful filigree scrollwork around the inside edges of the letter itself with a splash of teal winding through and around the whole thing and no, I'm not sharing because every time I post a tattoo photo I see it copied later and not in a flattering way.

X stands for ten. Ten years ago this July 13, Cole died of heart failure at the ripe old age of 38 39, already corrected, thanks Diabhal. It also stands for Xavier. His middle name.

The tattoo took two hours and fifteen minutes. I only needed a five minute break because I let it get the best of me but then Andrew came over and put on a movie and I was okay after that with minimal fuss and a lively debate on the terrible state of our university Spanish credits.

Mark asked what happened to my hardcore self.

She died. I told him.

Too bad, he said. She was the best. 

I'm not bad either. 

You're a weakling. She was a warrior. Maybe I should flip you over and put a W on your back. 

My back is full, I remind him.

It's okay. I'm saving the W for Loch anyway. He's the other way around. Used to be a weakling, now a warrior. It's like you guys have traded places. 

It's hard to believe you've flown all this way just to bust my balls, Mark. 

If only you had any, Bridget.