My father finally asked me what my tattoo means

Dear Delyara, I got a tattoo at nineteen, a small black bird on my shoulder. My father hated it so much he refused to look at it. For thirty years, whenever I wore sleeveless clothes, he would glance away dramatically and mutter about “ruining perfectly good skin.” Dad is eighty-one now and in hospice. Today, while I helped change his shirt, he saw the tattoo and asked, “What’s the bird for?” I thought he was joking. He genuinely did not remember ever asking before because he never had. I told him I got it after my best friend died when we were teenagers. The bird was from a drawing she made. Dad became quiet. Then he said, “I thought you did it just to annoy me.” I laughed. He laughed too, then apologized. Thirty years of irritation dissolved in a hospice room because he finally asked the question beneath the thing he disliked. I wish we had done that more often. Asked instead of deciding. He touched the tattoo with one finger and said it was actually quite nice. I told him not to get sentimental now. He said, “Too late.” It probably is.