Love, written on skin

Bonni Suckling explains how memorial tattoos give love and cherished memories of your person a permanent place to live.

Grief doesn’t arrive politely. It barges in, unannounced, and settles itself right on your chest. For me, it was never about ink. It was about not letting go completely.

I have many memorial tattoos for my son. A full sleeve, both shoulders, my back. It’s not subtle. All his favourite characters: Stitch, Buzz Lightyear, Tigger, and Mickey Mouse.

My grief has always been loud, and it needed somewhere to go. Sometimes it  was writing…and sometimes it was ink.

My first tattoo is a sentence across my lower back: Let’s make today the funnest day ever. Those were my son’s words. Every morning, I would ask him, “What do you want to do today?” There was always a plan. Watch cartoons. Build a fort. Play with LEGO. Throw stones in the river.

Towards the end, when everything became smaller and more fragile, I asked him again. Just like I always did. “What do you want to do today?”

And that morning, he mouthed the words. His voice cracked, soft and shaky, like each word had to travel a long way to reach me. “Mama…let’s make today the funnest day ever.”

He was dying. Blind, paralysed, weak. And still…that. That was the last sentence I heard him say.

So, I tattooed it onto my body. Because if my six-year-old, in that moment, could still reach for joy, then I feel like we owe it to him to try. Not perfectly. Not every day. 

Continuing bonds

People often think memorial tattoos are about memory. I don’t think they are. I think they are about placement. Where do you put someone who no longer has a body? Where do you store a voice, a laugh, a whole life?

You put them somewhere you can reach. Somewhere visible. For me, that was my skin.

There’s a name for this: continuing bonds. The idea that we don’t have to let go to heal, we just carry differently. As Elisabeth Kübler-Ross so gently reminded us, we don’t get over loss; we learn to live with it. Tattoos, in their own quiet way, help us do exactly that. They become a bridge between what was and what still is.

My best friend has her dad tattooed on her leg, a full portrait of him on his motorbike. We run together. She is a  brilliant runner. I’m sure she’s not running alone; her dad’s still doing a solid shift on that motorbike.

People carry those they have lost in different ways. Some wear rings. Some keep ashes by their beds. Some wear bracelets they never take off or run marathons. And some, get tattoos.

An open door to reach other children

I work in paediatric palliative care now. I sit with children who are scared, tired, and trying to make sense of things no child should ever have to understand. And sometimes, the tattoos open a door.

A child who will not speak will point and say, “Buzz.” A small hand will trace a character. And suddenly, we aren’t starting with illness or fear, we’re starting somewhere safe.

Those cartoons, once part of my son’s toy box, now help me reach other children, which feels like love…continuing to do its work.

Love finding somewhere to live

My grief has changed shape. It still hurts in places I can’t explain. But it’s no longer only something that takes from me. Somehow, the ink gives something back: connection, recognition, and a way of not feeling so alone in it.

When you see someone with a memorial tattoo, you’re not just seeing ink. You’re seeing  love finding somewhere to live.

Some days, I still hear him. Clear as anything. “Mama…let’s make today the funnest day ever.” He isn’t asking me to be happy. Not in a forced, shiny way. Just reminding me that once, we were. And that kind of love doesn’t disappear. It simply changes where it lives.

And if you’re reading this, and you carry your person too, in ink, in jewellery, in something small you never take off, trace your fingers over it for a moment.

It might look strange to the world. But that? That is love. Still here. Still yours.

Bonni Suckling is the founder of Rainbows and Smiles Foundation. In 2022, she completed her Paediatric Post Grad Diploma, a testament to her dedication to improving paediatric healthcare. She has played a pivotal role in establishing paediatric palliative care support groups, offering solace and guidance to families. She is also a gym instructor and endurance athlete.

Header image by Freepik