The tattoo is a scene of sorts—a memory. It’s set in the middle of winter, with piles of fluffy, white snow and tall, bare trees sitting along the bank of a frozen lake. A young boy dressed in full hockey gear is winding up his hockey stick, ready to shoot the puck into the nearby net. Hutton is written across the back of the boy’s jersey, above the number eleven. My dad’s lucky number and now mine. Yet the most meaningful part of the tattoo is the cross hidden between the trees and behind the snowbank. It’s hidden because written on the cross is the date my father passed away.
