Nora sat cross legged on the porch swing, one foot tucked underneath her. Ignacio occupied the opposite end, slowly turning a wrench over in his hands while his old truck cooled in the driveway. She had been staring at his arm for nearly five minutes. Finally she pointed. “What’s that one?”
Ignacio looked down. “This one?” He tapped the faded anchor inked high on his bicep.
Nora nodded.
“Anchor.”
“I can see that.”
“Good. Eyes are working.”
Nora rolled hers. “But, Abuelo, why did you get an anchor tattoo?”
He leaned back. “Because I was twenty, in the Navy stationed halfway around the world and had ten dollars.”
She frowned. “That’s a terrible reason.”
“It wasn’t at the time.” He smiled into his hand while she huffed dramatically.
Nora scooted closer and pointed to another one. The ship spread across his other arm had softened with age. The lines weren’t as crisp as they once were, but the sails still caught the wind if you knew how to look. “What about that one?”
“Merchant ship.”
“Because you worked on one?”
“Several.”
“You got a tattoo of your job?”
“People get tattoos of stranger things nowadays.”
She considered that. “Fair.” Ignacio laughed. Nora reached out carefully, tracing one finger through the faded lines without actually touching his skin. “Did they hurt?”
“Yep.”
“All of them?”
“Every last one.”
“Then why did you keep getting more?”
Ignacio turned the wrench once. “Same reason people climb mountains.”
“Why?”
“Seemed like a good idea before they started.”
That earned another eye roll. Nora’s gaze moved lower. The smallest tattoo sat near his collarbone, mostly hidden beneath the neck of his T shirt. A bird with wings spread wide. Unlike the others, it seemed oddly delicate. “What about that one?”
He looked down. For a moment his expression changed. Not sad. Just distant. “The swallow.”
“Why a bird?”
“Sailor thing.”
“What kind of sailor thing?”
He rested the wrench on his knee. “A long time ago sailors believed swallows would always find their way home.”
Nora studied the bird. “So if you got lost, the bird would help?”
“Something like that.”
She thought about it. “Did it work?”
Ignacio looked out toward the street. Toward the horizon hidden beyond houses and trees and half a continent. “Seems to have.”
Nora followed his gaze. “I don’t get it.”
A smile touched the corner of his mouth. “When you’re away long enough, you start thinking about home.”
“You mean your house?”
“Sometimes.”
“What else is there?”
He chuckled softly. The question sounded simple. At nine years old, it probably was. “People.”
Nora tilted her head. “Abuela?”
“Abuela.”
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
“Your parents?”
“Of course.”
The list continued. “Siblings. Cousins. Friends.”
“Uncle Micah?”
“If I had known him then, yes. He’s important to me.”
She nodded, satisfied.
Then she looked back at the swallow. “So the tattoo reminds you where to go?”
Ignacio was quiet for a moment. The skin around the old ink had wrinkled with age, but the bird still looked ready to take flight. “Not where.” Nora waited. “Who.”
She considered that answer carefully. The way she always did when adults said things that sounded like riddles. Finally she nodded. “I think Dad has one of those.”
Abuelo blinked. “A swallow tattoo?”
“No.” She pointed toward her chest. “But one inside.”
For a second neither of them spoke. Then Ignacio laughed so suddenly he nearly dropped the wrench. “Yeah,” he said. “I think your dad probably does.”
Nora smiled, and Ignacio readjusted his t-shirt as Carmen appeared from inside with a pitcher of lemonade and glasses and suddenly the conversation turned from finding one’s way home from war to why Abuela’s lemonade always tasted better than anyone else’s.