The Red Heart

Away back, when
we were young and
our children infants
you were infatuated with
the late, great
Winston Churchill, surely
an admirable, heroic
world figure whose
indomitable will lent
courage to a direly
threatened nation. In
homage, and fascinated
by the long line of
notables who wore tattoos,
you one day arrived home
with a word tattooed
above your wrist. I
laughed, then urged that you
strip it off, but it was
not temporary, like those
the children played with.
I lamented its glaring
permanence soiling the
arm I love, the red heart
and the letters
spelling my name. So
many years later
the name, though faded,
the red heart barely
discernible, are still
there. So, my love,
am I, albeit faded too.