Botanical tattoo of pink and grey blossoms on a branch across the top of a foot, with soft black outlines.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Blossom branch on the top of a foot

Botanical · Other · Mixed · Photo

A branch with three open five-petalled blossoms runs across the top of a foot and curls toward the ankle. The petals have soft black outlines, pink-red edges and grey shading, with stamens drawn at the top of the branch. The design fills the frame against a dark, plain background, with the foot angled diagonally.

Botanical Other Cherry blossom Blossom Flower Branch Petal

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit down, you, and mind the wasps. No, cherry trees don't bloom in August, not in any sensible county, and that's exactly why my father hated the one by the gate. He'd planted it the year the river dried to a string, and it never once behaved itself after that.

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The summer I'm talking about, the storm came over the ridge at four in the afternoon and knocked a branch clean off onto the track. Edith Pryce was walking back from the chapel with her shoes in her hand, and she found it lying in the puddles with a dozen blossoms still open on it. Five petals each, edged in red as if they'd been caught blushing, and little gold pins standing up in the middle. She carried it home over her shoulder like a bride's posy and stood it in a jug of rainwater on her sill, and the whole lane smelled of almonds for a week.

The blossoms never went over. Every morning another one opened, and the old ones turned papery and pale but stayed where they were, on the branch, on the sill, on the dresser, in the good Sunday cup. People came up the lane just to look. My father said it was the drought playing tricks, and he said it sourly, because he'd been wrong about the tree before.

When Edith died the jug was found dry and the branch was gone. The only thing left was a single blossom pressed flat on the gatepost, and it's still there under the varnish, if you know where to look. So when you walk past in August and the air goes sweet, don't stop to pick. It isn't for you. It's for whoever is walking home with their shoes in their hand.