I’ve never been good at remembering dates. Besides the anxious feeling I get the night before Christmas and the countless reminders I make to not miss my mother’s birthday, again, most dates fly right by me.
By the time I realize an occasion, birthday or special event, I’m left sprinting behind the athlete of time catching the trail of dust his cleats leave behind.
But July 24, 2006 is a date I will never forget.
Unlike most summer mornings, the obnoxious and relentless light beams projecting through my window were not what woke me from my sleep.
The sound started in the garage and then moved to the laundry room. Soon the kitchen became engulfed with the sound of my mother’s high heels pacing urgently on the floor above.
At 9 a.m. on a Monday morning I knew my mother would never be home unless she needed to be.
Her heels moved from the living room to the stairs. I knew where their destination lay.
She tapped on my door while letting herself in. She sat on the edge of my bed. I held my breath and prepared for the worst.
The next conscious breath I took was in our car racing towards the hospital.
30 minutes is what the doctor told me. You have 30 minutes.
Sitting on his bed I forced a smile. I forced assurance, I forced away the feeling. He told me, “Don’t worry. I need to be better for work in the morning.” But I could see the strength flowing from his body. I turned my head to fight back the tears. In a couple more seconds the morphine took away his ability to speak.
It then took less than 12 hours for the warmth of his hand to turn into a cold, foreign creature.
Around 10 p.m. July 24, 2006, my father heroically lost his battle with Cancer.
I was 15.
The repercussions that followed are events that I will spend the rest of my life apologizing to my mother for: Breaking curfews, choosing bad friends, getting bad grades, and even getting charged with a minor-in-possession are some of the character building choices I decided to make.
One day I finally stopped the chaos long enough to realize that was not how I wanted to live my life.
By the time I reached my senior year in high school I had a new attitude, a new drive for school, a new, influential group of friends, and forgiveness for what had happened to my father.
It was then that I decided for my 18^th birthday I would make another impulsive and life-changing decision: I called a tattoo parlor to set up an appointment.
Body shaking and hands sweating from gripping the sides of the bench, I turned my head away to fight back the tears the same way I did on July 24th. The small machine felt like a million little cat scratches on my foot. When the obnoxious pain ceased, I peered down to see the result of my decision. The tiny machine had forever inscribed the essence of my struggles into a simple outline of an elephant blowing a crimson red heart from its trunk.
The tattoo artist wrapped up my foot in gauze as rapidly as I did with the true story behind new my elephant. I didn’t entirely understand what the tattoo meant to me at that time, but I knew I would spend the rest of my life figuring it out.
For the rest of high school a lot of people would ask me what inspired me to get an elephant.
My responses were bland. I’d reply “no reason” or, “I got it because it’s unique and creative like me.”
Its story was my best kept secret even to my closest friends.
In college, I found my tattoo drew more attention than expected. Some would gawk at how elegant and artistic my elephant was. I even met a few girls who confided in me and told me that they had always wanted an elephant tattoo. Some told me I was brave to get a tattoo on my foot while others were impressed that I had gone through with getting an elephant.
I chuckled to myself and taught, “if only you knew.”
Still when my foot was not covered I knew it was a danger zone. I properly equipped myself with the answers to the questions I knew  awaited.
Without knowing it my tattoo became an attraction.
Half way through my freshman year my answers became second nature to me.
But there was one night where my answers lead me down an unexpected path.
I was in my friend’s dorm when a boy stopped at the door. He mostly small talked with the room owners while I stood near grinning and add little bits of input here and there. He then turned his attention to me catching me off guard. He then proceeded to ask about my tattoo.
I gave him the ordinary reply, but to him, that wasn’t good enough. He drilled me on my tattoo. He wanted more information than what everyone else had ever wanted. I turned my head, swallowed my tears like I had done so many times before and held my ground. After his grueling interrogation, he walked away with no answers but I could see the small hint of satisfaction creep into his eyes.
I stood paralyzed in my friend’s doorway.
That was the first time I regretted my tattoo. I regretted putting it somewhere visible, I regretted the elephant and I regretted its crimson red heart.
It wasn’t until my journalism class this year that I unveiled the story behind my elephant.
The assignment was simple: Show your partner a scar or tattoo and tell them the story behind it for an audio interview.
I knew what was coming.
For the first time I felt somewhat confident telling my story to a complete stranger. Maybe it was the build up  from all the years of secrecy or maybe it was in spite of the boy whose brief time in my life had drastically impacted my outlook on the decision I thought could never be shaken.
Whatever it was it was causing me to burst at the seams. I was ready.
After I had told my journalism partner the basics, which was more truth then I had ever told anyone, my huge rush of relief never came.
I felt like what I said didn’t actually give enough justice to what the tattoo meant to me.
Instead, I felt unsatisfied.
I started thinking about other tattoos I had seen throughout my life.
I flashed back to a trip to Disney Land last spring break. A friend and I were standing in line for a ride when we saw it. Inked in the back of his forearms a man had twin light sabers running from each of his shoulders to his elbows. The tattoos were hard to miss.
I was baffled. Why someone would consciously chose to forever imprint his body with something as silly and meaningless as a light saber. Just as I was about to finish my memory I struck a chord.
There had to be more than meets the eye.
For all I knew that tattoo could be an achievement to that man. The tattoo could be in memory of a friend or family member. More importantly those two massive light sabers could evoke a feeling that that man could never explain.
I smiled.
My tattoo represents a five year struggle. A struggle that has inherently etched me into the person I am today.
When I look down at my foot I see my accomplishments, my strength, and most importantly, my father.
That is a feeling no words or explanations could ever describe.