Tattoo

It was hidden below her hairline, across her nape of neck, for her to know that it was there, but no one else just yet.

Younger sister Sophie snuck through her bedroom window. And no one knew that she had gone to party and to dance, to greet, to meet, to drink with friends in Haute Sauverne in France.

Sophie had wisely second thought of riding with the fire chief son, but school friends had allayed concern, all piling in, and not alone, fifteen year old could soon be home, when dance and fun was done.

The night was cold, the heater on, and and tired young man drove off the road, hard crashing with his precious load. Dear Sophie was the only one, with belt forgot, which was undone. Friend sat beside while they both cried and friend held fast her trembling hand, held hand while Sophie cried, held hands while Sophie died.

Four sisters now are three. There's Jen and Natalie, and then the youngest of them all is known only as Mimi.They lost their sparkle lively one, their dearest sister Sophie.They lost their dearest lively one. Four sisters, though not now alone, four sisters now are three.

And so, some time since shock subsides, though sadness never gone, I glanced those words beneath her hair, those words discretely hid, that parents would forbid if they had shown, if they had known that they were there.

But older sister was compelled to get for Sophie sister gone, those words always remembered yet, in tattoo script on nape of neck, her pleading words to not forget, and which said, secret 'neath her hair, and yet cut deep forever there:

'wake her up and tell her',
yes, 'tell her that I love her.'

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