Mother will not be pleased about my latest decision. Actually, I can’t remember a time when Mom was pleased about any of my decisions. But that’s a whole other post.
I was at a party yesterday, catching up with a friend I haven’t seen in a couple of months, when she mentioned she was going for a tattoo. I pounced immediately and invited myself along. For months I’ve been trying to talk someone into going with me and getting a tattoo. Everybody thinks it’s a grand idea, but no one can decide what to get done. They waffle, as I’ve been waffling.
My waffles are done. They’re toast, you might say. I have decided on what and where. Book me an appointment.
My friend mentioned that her tattoo will be in her husband’s handwriting. He, apparently, has nice handwriting. Struck me as a good idea, and made me think of Dad.
My dad died in 1997. I miss so much about him, too many things to list here and listing them all would only make me sad, so I’ll stick to my original train of thought. Which, come to think of it, is the whole point of my tattoo.
I better explain. Really, stick with me and the perpetual perplexity, that appears on the faces of people I try to communicate with, should clear.
My Dad had beautiful penmanship. My first wedding (again, my relationships would be a whole different post. Probably, a whole new webpage), he hand-wrote around 300 invitations and damn near every guest commented on how lovely the handwriting was.
Now, I already knew what my tattoo was to say. Just one word. Five letters that need to be drilled into my head every so often in order for me to get anything accomplished. The one word Mr. Neil Strand, my grade 4, 5 and 6 grade teacher put on every report card I ever bought home. If I can get a tattooist…tattooer…the person who will create art on the skin of my right forearm, to copy these five letters from the last note my Dad sent me before he died, it will mean so much to me;
I’m going to need it, if I ever plan to finish this bloody book.