I thought it odd yesterday when my son texted me out of the blue asking me for the date of my father’s death. I answered him anyway.
“December 3, 2013.”
“Are you sure?” he replied.
Jesus, maybe I’m not, I thought to myself. I pulled up the image on my phone of his stone. Dummy, it’s December 2nd. I always get that wrong.
“Sorry bud, it’s December 2nd. Duh.” I typed.
“May I ask why you’re asking this?” I queried.
“Nope. Tell you later.”
An hour later, I got this in my text messages.
That is the chest of my son, with his Grandfather’s date of death in memoriam on his chest. I was floored.
I’ve always said that my first tat will be in memoriam of my father. But being on a transplant list I can’t get a tat because I will be a Hepatitis risk and disqualified. My tat was to be RIP Billy Mac. A.S.N.F. I am a junior as you can see and the A.S.N.F. stands for A Son Never Forgets, from the outstanding Cuba Gooding, Deniro movie Men of Honor. A must see BTW.
I could have been upset that he beat me to the punch. I could have been dreading the shit show his mother is going to throw because she hates tattoos. But I was nothing but beaming with pride that my son chose to honor his grandfather, who loved him more than life itself, and me in the process. The kid gets it, he gets history, he gets pride, he honors family and he knows where he came from.
I asked him why he put it on his chest. He told me that one day, not any time in the near future, he would put mine on the other side. Close to his heart.
I’ve raved ad nauseum about how much I love my children and how proud I am of the amazing people and citizens they’ve grown into. Now, my dear reader I finally can offer you proof. I love that kid.
Of all of the unfortunate tattoos he could have chosen, I am just amazed at the route he took. Now, I must go. I think someone is chopping onions because my eyes are getting teary.