Tattoo

Fiction

My dad died when I was nine. Since my family is atheist, no tombstone was ever erected for my father. However, in many cities, you can get a memorial plaque on a city bench, a fine secular substitute for a tombstone. My mother decided to get such a memorial plaque.

For many years I was preoccupied with the expressions of my anguish—drinking, for example—and I didn’t know where my father’s bench was located in the city. This became a source of embarrassment; as when sometimes the topic of my father’s death came up, I would need to explain the way in which we commemorated him, and would be unable to give a full explanation.

Too embarrassed to ask her, I gleaned with some guile from my mother the rough location of the bench, by encouraging her to talk about her experiences there, and inferring from her descriptions the likely location. Thereafter, I was able to report its location to my interlocutors, and thereby give my family tragedy the material objects to which an audience attaches their sentiments; indeed, I would say such things as “my little sister and I often go and sit there and talk about the things we used to do with dad,” although no such thing ever occurred. But this is not to say we did not properly grieve our father’s death, since whereas the audience needs outward signs of a person’s grief, the speaker has the sentiments themselves.

What words were inscribed on my father’s bench? The typical ones? “Loving father, husband, son”? Certainly not. Eschewing not only religious tradition, but also civic tradition, my mother had instead inscribed a line that ostensibly captured my father’s “philosophy on life,” namely, the pithy phrase, “live in every moment.” Long before I knew the location of the bench, I knew these words, and would often communicate them to my interlocutors, giving them their due gravity, and explaining their philosophical import.

Even after I learned the location of the bench, I seldom went. Until one year, I got a job—my pedestrian commute to which passed by the bench, so that it became more convenient to rest there.

I have few fond memories of the bench, but one awkward one. Once, my girlfriend secretly arranged for us to celebrate my birthday at the bench.

As we walked along the seawall to the park between the two bridges overlooking the docks, I discovered her surprise—I saw that, by the bench, she had set up a sign between two red pinwheels that spun haphazardly in the breeze, and on the sign written, Happy Birthday, Eric. Her plan had been for us to sit together on the bench, but to our horror, someone else was already there! Moreover, it was a strange man who had unfashionable sunglasses and no social awareness. My girlfriend asked me quietly whether I would like to sit for a while, but I shook my head and we moved on.

It may surprise you to learn that my mother did not own the bench in which my father’s plaque was set. Indeed, these benches are never owned, but rather leased, in my hometown, in increments of ten years. And when the lease eventually expired, my mother informed my sister and me that she would not be renewing it, since it cost two-thousand dollars, a material sum, and, besides, we seldom went.

I decided to get the memorial phrase as a tattoo. I thought that while my father’s city would forget him, at least while I lived he would be remembered. However, I knew from seeing over time my classmates’ various tattooed phrases, that it was possible for a series of words, while meaningful, to sound irredeemably cringe.

To avoid this ignominy, I decided to translate the phrase “live in every moment” into Danish, my father’s mother tongue, which mercifully few can speak. I effected this translation together with my Danish aunt via email. There was no verbatim idiom, but we found a suitable set of words. I asked my most tastefully tattooed classmate where I should have the work done. I went on her advice to the coolest tattoo shop in town, and had the Danish words inscribed under my arm in the American Traditional style. If you were to translate the Danish phrase back into English, you would end up with a slightly different formulation; namely, “live in the now.”