Our daughter Sheba* came home yesterday from spending the summer with her grandmother in San Diego. She is as gorgeous as ever, having dyed her hair once again back to auburn, her original color. (When she left, her hair was red. Not redhead red, not even clown red. Superhero red. And it actually looked good.)
We chatted into the night and continued this morning when she arose at the crack of 11:00. She couldn’t wait to show me her pictures, so after she downloaded them she called me over.
“That’s me with my friends who came to visit. And that’s me with my boyfriend.” (He flew over for a long weekend.)
“Well, that’s my tattoo.”
Oh. Oh my. My daughter’s got ink. To be honest, this wasn’t much of a surprise. She’s been wanting a tattoo for about three years that I’m aware. And—thank you, Lord!—this one is not going to challenge her employability, as some I’ve seen on her friends.
The tattoo is a few measures from a song that she loves, one that was a hit when I was a teenager. No words, just notes on a staff curved over her right hip. The words to this line are:
“Nowhere you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.”
Can you name that tune? And no fair googling.
*If you haven’t already guessed by now, I have changed the names of family and friends to protect their privacy. FWIW, Abe means “father;” Ben means “son;” and Sheba means “daughter.”