Small black fine line crescent moon and star tattoo on an ankle, beside a beaded anklet, in a black and white photo.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Crescent moon and star on an ankle

Fine line · Ankle · Black and grey · Photo

A small crescent moon with a five-pointed star beside it, drawn in thin black outline on the inner side of an ankle. The linework is clean and even, with no shading inside the shapes, and the skin around it is plain. The photograph is in black and white, and a beaded anklet sits just below the tattoo on a woven fabric background.

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The tin came off the sheet with a sound like a held breath, and my father never let me cut the crescent myself. He said the moon wants a steady hand and the star wants a quick one. I was eleven that winter, and I had already learned to punch the small holes with a nail and a block of oak, counting them under my breath so the rhythm would not wander.

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The lamps went out on the Scarborough boats, one to each bow, and every skipper asked for the same pattern. Mr Ashdown, who kept the chandlery on Church Street, called it old-fashioned. My father said a sailor wants to see something he recognises when the fog comes down and the sea has taken the shape of everything.

The winter the Grace Ellen failed to come back, my father sat by the stove with the last unfinished lamp in his lap. He had been working on the star, and its five points were uneven, one arm shorter than the rest. I asked him to leave it crooked. He did. I carried the tin down to the slipway at dusk and hung it on the post where the boats turn.

Their lamp came round the headland at four in the morning, the pierced light throwing a small bright star across the water, and the crew steered in on it. Nobody thanked a tinsmith's girl. But when the Grace Ellen tied up that morning, her bow lantern carried a crooked star, and my father put his hand on my head and said nothing at all, which was the most he ever said.

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