I got a tattoo.
For 23 years I was married to a man who thought tattoos were the most revolting thing in the world – next to smoking. Outwardly I agreed with him. Privately I thought some tattoos could be very tasteful, classy, and even sexy. I had in the back of my mind a vague idea that I would like a small tattoo to honour my dad, but I knew as long as I was with Paul, it wouldn’t happen.
I’m not with him any more.
I got the tattoo.
It would fit on a business card, is on the outside of my left ankle, and consists of the word “Dad” inside a purple heart resting on a scrolled musical staff. On either side of the heart are tiny music notes, symbolic of my dad’s love of music. Below the heart are the dates “1912 – 1991” – his birth and death years. In keeping with the symbolism, I had the tattoo done on June 12, 2012 – which would have been my father’s 100th birthday, were he still alive.
Will I get any more? Not likely. Do I regret doing this? Not for a moment.