Black and grey photo of two fingers with the word Always in script on one and FOREVER in block lettering on the other, both on the hand.

Always and Forever finger tattoos

Lettering · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

Two fingers are pressed together, each carrying a word in tattoo lettering. The word Always is written in a flowing script on the upper finger, while FOREVER is set in bold, shaded block capitals on the lower finger. The image is monochrome with soft shadowing and a dark vignette around the edges.

Lettering Hand Always Forever Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The relief boat was three days late, so on the fourth night I climbed the tower alone to trim the wick by hand. Fog lay on the Skerry like wet wool, and the paraffin had turned damp in its drum. Halfway up the spiral stair I stopped at the landing where Aunt Morag had scratched a word into the whitewash with her wedding ring, the year she came out to the rock as a bride. Always. She said she meant the light. The mainland thought she meant her husband, who went over the north ledge before I was born.

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The lamp room door was painted black, and above its hinge someone had fixed a square of tin with one word cut in blocky capitals: FOREVER. Nobody on the rock would own to it. Morag swore the board's painter had done it on his once-a-decade visit, a man with a bad temper and a tin of enamel he never shared. I used to think it was a joke at her expense. I stopped thinking that the winter I found her ring tucked in the brass rail of the lantern, polished bright from years of her thumb.

I got the wick trimmed with numb fingers. Through the glass the beam swung out over the water, catching the buoy, the black rocks, and a grey hull limping in from Stornoway with its running light blinking. I pressed my thumb and forefinger together on the cold brass the way Morag used to hold mine when she wanted me still, then let them go.

The skipper came ashore at dawn with a crate of tinned peaches and a letter for the keeper. He stood on the landing reading the whitewash where it had flaked, and asked who had written Always. I told him the truth. He nodded, folded the letter back into his coat, and said the station would go automatic by spring. I said the light would still want someone to climb for it, and the stairs would keep their words whether anyone read them or not.