This is my first one. The purples and greens have somewhat faded, but the black outline still showcases its delicate shape and feathery wings. My grandfather always fed the hummingbirds right outside the dining room windows. He made his own sugar mixture and faithfully replaced it every three days. When the bears discovered the sweet liquid, he engineered clever ways of
keeping the feeder out of reach.

My grandfather was usually very stoic, a man of few words. Often as quiet as the wings of a hummingbird. It took me until adulthood to learn that his gestures, like feeding these tiny creatures or raking the slimy leaves from the bottom of the lake so my sisters and I weren’t squeamish when we swam, were his silent ways of showing his affection.

The lily-of-the-valley came next. The hummingbird’s sharp beak dips into one small bell shaped bloom. It represents my grandmother. She would collect the miniature lilies growing on the front lawn and place the sprigs in a tiny bud vase. My grandmother–a  petite flower herself, voice of a songbird, player of board games, and relisher of an evening glass of Chablis. I used to play dress up in her fur coats and peruse through the jewels in the large carved wooden box in her dresser. I’ve kept it in the same spot. Her voice remains  in the leaves of the big oak tree on the side lawn. The old wooden swing blowing back and forth in the wind like the melody of her warm up vocals.

I twist to my left and lift up the side of my shirt, exposing my rib cage. Blueberry bushes grow wild alongside the banks of our property. Collecting them has been one of my favorite things to do ever since I could grasp my chubby toddler fingers around the tender blue fruit. Just as may mom did when she was a toddler, as well as my grandmother. The thin black branch of ink contains five olive green leaves and two plump blueberries. One for each of my children who impatiently wait every June for the tiny green buds to ripen into their favorite snack. They are the sixth generation of blueberry gatherers at the lake.

Above the sprig of blueberries lies a secret code. A series of thin black numbers that I keep close to my heart. I have to crane my neck to see this one, or just admire it while I stand naked in front of a mirror. Is this one I want to share? This special code unlocks the secret. It puts my private piece of heaven on a map. In case I ever get lost, I will know how to get home.

The one on my forearm is my favorite and likely the last one. It’s simple. It’s beautiful. It’s her. It’s a reminder to be present. It’s a permanent memory of when she was still physically here with me. “Here, Now”. She wrote it at the kitchen counter at the lake. She didn’t understand why I asked her to write these two words over and over in her best handwriting. She was my best
friend. My mom. She was the lake. She contained all of the history. She made it home.

Melissa and her husband own a Bed and Breakfast lakeside in Maine.