For as long as I could remember, my mother had a tiny blue flower tattooed on the inside of her left wrist.
And for just as long, she refused to explain what it meant.
It wasn’t an elaborate tattoo.
Just five small blue petals with a thin stem, no bigger than a coin.
As a child, I would sit on her lap during warm summer evenings and trace the flower with my finger.
“Where did you get this?” I asked once when I was about seven.
Mom smiled down at me.
“I got it when I was young.”
“Does it mean something?”
Her smile shifted slightly.
“It means I was young and made a decision.”
