Botanical tattoo of a bare black-branched tree with a pink blossom canopy on the inner wrist, shown with the palm facing up.

Blossom tree on the inner wrist

Botanical · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A bare tree with dark, branching limbs and a brown trunk sits on the inner wrist, with a soft cloud of pink blossom fading out behind the crown. The branches use fine dark linework while the blossom is shaded with diluted pinks and greens, giving a painterly finish. The hand is held palm up in the foreground against a plain grey top and pale wall.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Sit closer, the lot of you, and mind the candle, Brother Anselm has been at the wax again. You want to know why the old cherry by the lavatorium is bare for most of the year? Then listen, because I will not tell it twice and I am not as young as I was when Abbot Hild first walked me out to see it.

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The tree was planted by a lay sister named Edith Marrow, who came up from Thornbeck mill with a sack of stones and nothing else. Her family had sent her to the house to be out of the way, the way families did then, and she dug the first hole herself because the men would not lend her a spade. Every morning she carried water from the well in two buckets, one for the sapling and one for the brothers' bread, and she would never say which was the heavier.

The tree came into blossom the spring she died, all in one night, pink as a cut lip, and the whole cloister smelled of it by matins. The abbot wanted it felled for the new drains. The carpenter raised his axe, and a gust came off the escarpment that knocked the blade clean from his hand and sent it skittering across the flags. Nobody touched the trunk after that. Its limbs hung over the wall into the lane, so the village took the petals as their own.

So when the blossom comes, you go out at dusk and stand beneath it, and you do not take a single petal. That is the whole rule, and it is older than any of your rules about silence. Now, who has finished their porridge?

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