It covers the back of his hand, ink mixed with blood against alabaster flesh
The day is done, and the darkness falls from the wings of night
I love it. It's from The Day is Done, one of the Longfellow poems I can easily recite from memory and most of the boys can too. Caleb had it tattooed this morning. He has a bunch of hand tattoos but this is a full back of his right hand, all the way across in three lines, a neat block of gothic script that suits him to a tee.
I can't take my eyes off it. It's a nice cheer-me-up on a day that sees me in my Cinnamoroll pajamas, fever still chugging along, kidney infection raging on full blast this morning, after yesterday went downhill rather quickly all of the sudden because that's how I operate. I go go go and wonder if more sleep is all I need only to find out my body wants to betray me like my mind already has. Everything is just jumping ship altogether and I can't say I blame any of it, these days.
The tiredness is not only the not sleeping, the perimenopause, the mental exhaustion that never quits, it was far more sinister. Lochlan called the doctor who made yet another house call and now I'm on these giant bumblebee antibiotics that have finally slowed me down and I'm going back to bed here before eleven in the morning. PJ has the conn.
Hey, Bridge, want to go car-shopping with me? Caleb's heading out to get his new vehicle which should be fun. With his hand wrapped up like that he looks like he's been in a bar fight. Besides, he's not shopping, he's just trading his in on a new one, and so it's just a quick drop and go.
No, PJ can keep you company, as I said. I'm going back up to sleep. I'm not feeling good.
Can I bring you home lunch?
Is it Vietnamese?
If that's what you'd like.
Then yes. Duh.
Ha. That's what I thought you'd say.