Victims of time and circumstance. I always liked that line. T.C. Boyle. Surely he stole it, though. Borrowed, I mean. Uncredited still, if he did. It is one of the lines I consider putting on my headstone. If I have one, that is. Is it too soon to say something disparaging about the news coverage of the terrible tragedy? Sure.
But I don't know. About what to put on my tombstone, I mean. It seems irrevocable, like a tattoo. I have never gotten a tattoo. I can't even settle on a paint color for the wall.
"Does that yellow seem to have green in it? I don't know. It looks too green to me."
My father had a WWII tattoo. It was his first wife's name in a heart. Trixie. Yup. I shit you not. I don't think my mother cared for that much. He tried to sandpaper it off, I think. It was so blurred in my childhood that you couldn't really read it. I never met her, of course, but from what I heard, she was something of a free spirit. Names may be destiny.
Perhaps I'll never settle on a saying or a tombstone. They are the tattoos of the dead.
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