It was like any other day, she took the turning that led to her mothers house. The sense of returning home was the familiar feeling she felt as a child coming home from school. Things had changed though, new signs had gone up, people passing seemed the same but different… she trod the pavements she had trodden all those years ago, remembering the familiar cracks in pavements, crumbling cement in the walls of passing houses, the taste or the air and the smells of other peoples dinners.
Her dress clung to her thighs as the wind whipped across her body, ‘ummm’ she thought and shivered, somehow, secretly she felt like crying. Her journey had taken her full circle, she now lived in a place of her ancestors, and as she sensed their lives far away from her mother she walked silently in their ghostly like shadows tracing daily routes she thought they may have taken. Somehow she had fixated on her ancestors etching a direct memory into her present. She strode in their footsteps and remembered stories told to her by her very own mother, wanting very much to feel as they did. The compulsion drove her to near distraction.
The daughter sensed all this, and relished the eccentricities her mother took on. Nevertheless endless separation was tangible, the gulf between them now took on a new form since the daughter’s had now left home and were finding their own way in life. The mother had become quite eccentric, she brought a monkey, a shy little thing that attached itself to her shoulder. She had become quite outrageous after all those years of playing the dull and dutiful wife, she laughed out loud with a vigour that would frighten the local wolves. She would nowadays more often than not storm into situations dressed in the armour of her tattooed skin pronouncing a formidable presence wherever she went. The daughter was somehow amazed by this, secretly shocked and would giggle nervously as she toyed with the image of her ‘new’ mother.
There is the theory that daughters are destined to turn into their mothers or some such codswallop. The daughter considered her fate at length, weighing up the pros and cons of this event occurring. It seemed unlikely but then again the daughter; an artist herself had lately become attached to the tool that splattered the eternal ink. She herself had etched pictorial images into the skin of friends and harboured a fascination with her own kind of skin art.
The chain of events were now merging, the mothers journey and the daughters, inextricably linked by inking. The trail of etchings carved indelibly into their skins seemed to smile as the two women now sat mulling over their unsaid circumstance, a silent knowing between them that was as old as time itself.