I saw a tattoo on my grandmother's wrist.
We were baking cookies and I saw it.
I saw some numbers peeking out from beneath her sleeve
as she kneaded the dough with her bony calloused palms.
I had seen people with tattoos before,
Gina, the woman who did story time at the library, had a butterfly on her shoulder.
But this was different. This was not a picture like Gina's butterfly.
So I asked her, "Bubbe*, what's that on your arm?
They're numbers, aren't they? What are they for?"
Her typically olive skin and rosy cheeks went white.
After a brief silence that seemed like a lifetime she spoke.
"It's nothing, angel.
Come, help Bubbe with the chocolate chips.
Cookies can't bake themselves, you know."
But it wasn't nothing. I knew that.
Why would she have paled that way if it didn't bring up grief?
And her voice; so quiet, so distant. It sounded nothing like anything I had heard from her before.
I didn't want to hurt her, not anymore than I already had,
But my childlike curiosity got the best of me, and I brought it up that night as she tucked me into bed.
Her eyes seemed to travel to a place far far away.
I tried to follow her, but I couldn't keep up.
She began to sing a song in Polish, and as I listened she wept.
"In time you will learn, my darling. And once you know you can never forget.
But for now rest. Rest your eyes and grandma will sing you to sleep.
Knowing what I know now, I'm glad she didn't tell me that night.
*Bubbe is Yiddish for grandmother
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