For as long as I could remember, my mother had a tiny blue flower tattooed on the inside of her left wrist.
And for as long as I could remember, she refused to tell me what it meant.
It wasn’t an elaborate tattoo.
Just five small blue petals and a thin stem, no larger than a coin.
As a child, I used to 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 changed slightly.
“It means I was young and made a decision.”
Then she kissed the top of my head and changed the subject.
That became her standard answer.
I asked again when I was eleven, during a phase when I thought tattoos were the coolest thing in the world.
