Day 432

“Very nice.” That’s what Dad used to say all the time. It was just about the only compliment I could expect. When I posted my photography, he commented, “very nice.” When I got an essay or story published, he’d read it and respond, “very nice.” But to me, “nice” was bland. It’s what people said when they didn’t really have anything better to say. And when Dad said, “very nice,” it didn’t feel like a compliment. Even as an adult, I suppose I was still searching for his approval. And “very nice,” made me feel as if I were falling short. Once, I told him how I felt. So instead of commenting “very nice” on my photography, he started giving me thumbs-up instead. Which only made me feel worse. But it was my own fault.

And then he got sick, and while he was dying in the hospital — unconscious and unaware of everything — I had an essay about my time in Nepal published. As always, I posted it on Facebook. Friends congratulated me. But what I wanted more than anything was for Dad to be able to read it. I desperately wanted to hear those two words — “very nice” — that once galled me so much. But he died, ensuring I’d never hear them from him again. He died before I realized how special those words were. Before I could tell him how wrong I had been, that I appreciated the fact that he even took the time to look at my photography and read my essays. 

I miss Dad. I miss his voice. I miss the compliments I once scorned because I was incapable of seeing how genuine they were. Dad never was a man of many words. He kept everything short and concise and I should have realized that sooner.

Anyway, last summer while we were traveling, I decided I needed to have his words, in his handwriting, tattooed on my wrist. When I sat at my computer writing or working on photography, I wanted to see the compliment he’d no longer be able to give me. I had never gotten a tattoo before. Not for any reason other than that I couldn’t think of anything I’d want permanently etched on my body. Until now. 

While on the road, I had asked friends for recommendations on where to go to get a tattoo. Several people responded. But this was back in August when COVID was still a major threat. Way before I was vaccinated. And I just didn’t feel safe getting it done yet. But now that I’m vaccinated, it was time. Of course I neglected to write down any of the recommendations and scrolling through Facebook to find the original post would have been tedious. But I remembered that the daughter of a former colleague suggested a place, and so I reached out to her asking if she could please give me the information again. She did. Telling me not only where to go — Rorschach Gallery — but recommending a few artists as well. I decided to go with Dennis, the artist who had tattooed her mother, since I had seen those tattoos, and anyone who had been vetted and approved by B had to be good. As luck would have it, Dennis had moved to new location that was only ten minutes from where I live. I called to make an appointment, expecting to have to wait a week or two, but he had availability today.

What I thought would be the challenging part of getting the tattoo was finding the words “very nice” in Dad’s handwriting. It turned out not to be difficult at all. Usually, when my parents went on vacation, Mom wrote out the postcards they sent to my son. However, on their last trip, the trip that killed Dad, for some reason even my mother can’t explain, he decided to write the postcards. Three days after he died, my son got the last postcard he had ever written: “Took a tour around Port Stanley in the Falkland Islands. It is a very nice place.” Yep, even when writing about having a wonderful time, “very nice” was the highest praise he’d give. The postcard was exactly what I needed.

Dennis was fantastic. I was nervous stepping into the tattoo place, but the minute Dennis came out to discuss the tattoo with me I immediately felt comfortable. He was kind, patient, and very personable. He explained the process and took the time to make sure the words were the correct size and positioned exactly where I wanted them. If I ever find something else I want permanently drawn on my body, I will definitely go back to him.

As for Dad, he always hated tattoos. If he were alive and I got one, he wouldn’t approve. But now, if he’s somewhere, I’d bet he’s smirking not really sure if he should be angry or pleased. Deep down, though, I think he’d be happy to know that in end I appreciated his praise and that after a year, I was still thinking about him.