The Tattoo

We were five or six; it was a long time ago. Annie and I used to play on the wooden steps of our parents’ Steiner Street apartment house. She had lots of freckles, red hair, and numbers tattooed on her forearm. We matured into a lifelong friendship. She became a successful immigration attorney living in Berkeley. I read about her representing Nicaraguan refugees and the President’s barrage of negative tweets for her efforts. We met for coffee one day and talked of the current state of political bitterness. Annie said she never reveals her tattoos.


Barry Vitcov lives in Ashland, Oregon with his wife and two standard poodles. He is a retired educator who recently began submitting poetry and short fiction to various publications, with several poems and short stories already published. He began writing poems in his early teens and fondly remembers his father carrying around a small collection of his poems in his billfold and showing them off to his friends and customers. He has been published in EAP: The Magazine, Literary Yard, Scarlet Leaf Review, Vita Brevis, Finding the Birds, and The Drabble. vitcov.com.