the end is not yet

Imagine taking hundreds of leaves made of plaster and pressing them vein-side down into your ceiling so tightly that you can't see the edges of the leaves. Only the thick white ridges of the veins.

That's kind of what the ceiling in my bedroom looks like.

Sometimes when I lay there awake, I look at it and find shapes in the ridges. Kind of like lying on your back in a field searching for patterns in the clouds.

Most often it's cave painting stick finger people. There seem to be a lot of those up there.

I'm not sure why, but cave paintings fascinate me. I think one day if I find a picture of one I like - maybe a deer? - I'll have it tattooed somewhere. Maybe.

Midway through the summer I finally figured out what I want my first tattoo to be. A quill. Being a writer, I thought it was clever and original. I'd never heard of or seen such a tattoo before.

Then came the night back in September when Jer and I took the TTC to Shannon's place down by the Lakeshore and from there walked to Mississauga for funnel cake and back. It took forever and Shannon at one point said she was worried that we were never going to get there and that Jer and I would get so frustrated with her for saying it'd be a short walk that we'd throw her off a bridge into the fog that swirled randomly that night.

On the long walk back, tattoos came up in conversation and Shannon said she'd decided to get a quill if she ever got one.

I still think it's clever and still want it. Even if it's not quite as original as I first though.