Drawn That Way

Have you ever been naughty for its own sake? Why not? Is there something you were told not to do, maybe concerning your own body? My answer to questions one and three is yes.

I bought a box of magic markers, Crayola. I didn’t buy any paper, not even a coloring book. I already have one: my body.

The first drawing was a simple flower. It was pretty. The second drawing was more like angry scribbling, abstract colors and shapes that didn’t all wash off.

My mother never allowed me to write or draw on my skin, so shortly before my 55th birthday (looming large through the windshield), I rebelled and made myself my own canvas.

The third night, I drew what I wanted to draw for myself—a forest with a river. I drew it on my breasts, green nipple treetops, a river flowing horizontally above my cleavage, trees growing up from my perspective, great wooden trunks that could trick you into thinking down is up, smudges of sunset sky slipping onto my skin between the leaves, dappling my river.

My inner child met my inner teenager on the surface of my body and created a world I can live in. They laughed and played without a ball, created a masterpiece not ready for primetime. I’ll never show it to a soul who didn’t attend the unveiling.

The earrings I bought for myself remind me of my own forest, a sanctuary guarded by time itself, a temple to willful naughtiness.