The Mouse That Remembered Me. Part II: Boxed In (2019)
2019: The Year Without Magic
Things started good. I was six years into tattooing, four years at GoodTimes in Salt Lake, and the shop still had a spark to it. I had an apprentice. We were all close. One day, six of us tattooed each other in a daisy chain, laughing our way through the whole thing.
I now have a Drake tattoo.
And then April hit like a freight train.
My mom passed.
I missed her last call.
I was at a baby shower, one I should’ve skipped. I was supposed to visit her right after. I was playing poker when she called.
I won the game.
But that call… I don’t think I’ve ever forgiven myself for that.
A few months before, she had given me the box.
Each of her kids had one. Her plan was to pass them down when we had children of our own — toys, bedding, little plates and cups. A Cabbage Patch Kid named Dean. And my baby book: covered in her handwriting. Notes in the margins. Every milestone. It was like a living manuscript of how much she loved me.
I never had a kid, but after I turned 30, she said: Just take it.
I did.
And then, the night before Mickey Day 2019 — the box was stolen.
I had pulled the Chevelle out to make it special. That’s when I saw the garage had been broken into. The box was gone.
I tried to go to the gym, act normal. But I was wrecked.
I canceled Mickey Day.
That year, Mickey became something quieter. I had started to connect him to my childhood — not just Disney movies, but this thread woven into who I was. The relationship I was in loved Mickey too, but more as a novelty. For me, something deeper had started to unlock.
But by the end of 2019, everything was dark.
The relationship was ending. My mom was gone. The box was gone.
And so was the mouse.
There are barely any photos from that year. My creativity was on life support.
Tattooing wasn’t where it could be. I wasn’t where I could be.
That year, my art wasn’t the main character.
Regret was.
But even then…
Mickey kept showing up. In the margins. In little silhouettes.
It’s like he remembered who I was, even when I didn’t.
This was the year without Mickey magic.
But the mouse stayed.