Bare foot and ankle with a Japanese-style cherry blossom branch tattoo in black linework and red flowers, climbing from the top of the foot up the ankle.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Cherry blossom branch wrapping an ankle

Japanese · Ankle · Mixed · Photo

A woman's bare foot and lower leg are shown against a white background, with a single cherry blossom branch running from the top of the foot up the outside of the ankle. The branch is drawn in dark black strokes with small red five-petal blossoms scattered along it, with more blossoms clustered near the ankle. The colour is limited to the black branch and red flowers on smooth, even skin, with a clean, minimal composition.

Japanese Botanical Ankle Cherry blossom Branch Flower Foot Ankle

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow had sealed the pass for nine days when the stranger came down the track with a branch wrapped in oilcloth across his shoulders, and my mother, who did not care for guests she could not price, told him the loft was damp and the broth was dear.

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He paid in silver and asked only for a bucket of warm water and a corner by the hearth. I was eleven and had nothing to do but watch. He unwrapped the branch on the kitchen table, black and crooked as a crow's leg, with a few grey knots where it had been cut. Nothing grew on it. He set the stem in the bucket, sat down to his supper, and ate as if this were the most ordinary thing in the world.

By midnight the kitchen was warm enough to sweat the windows, and the buds had split. I crept down in my nightshift and found them open, pink-red and papery, each flower with its five clean petals, crowding the twigs as though they had waited all winter for permission. The stranger was asleep with his head on his arms. My mother was not. She stood in the doorway with her candle and said nothing at all, which in her was a kind of prayer.

In the morning the sky had cleared and the snow lay blue over the valley. The stranger was gone, and so was the branch, but on the sill beside the bucket lay a single petal, red as a coal, and a silver coin worth three times the room. My mother turned the coin over twice before she put it in her apron. She never said where the wood had come from, and I never asked.