Galaxy pine tree held in a hand on a thigh
Thigh · Mixed · Photo
The tattoo shows a black linework hand, drawn in outline, gripping the trunk of a pine tree whose branches are filled with blue, purple and speckled star-like shading. Below the hand, a small landscape of wavy black lines and upright posts sits in fine, sketchy ink. The photograph is taken close up on the outer thigh, with a polka dot skirt and blue painted nails visible at the top of the frame.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
At half past three the shop smelled of wet flour and the kind of cold that gets into your knuckles. Aunt Ottilie set a bowl of dough on the bench between us and said the trick to a good crust was not heat but patience, the same as with a tree.
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The tree she meant stood alone on Hollin Edge, a pine older than the fence posts that ran up the moor towards the reservoir. Every winter the village tied red wool to its lower branches for the Solstice Walk, and every winter someone took the wool down again. Ottilie said the tree was not lonely, only held, and that whatever kept it upright belonged to the ground, not to anyone who wanted to climb it.
I went up alone the week after she died, with a lamp and the dough cutter in my coat. Snow had drifted level with the posts. The pine was black against the stars, and when I reached up to where the wool used to be, my palm found bark that was warm, as though the day had been lying on it. I stood there until the lamp guttered, and the sky above the branches looked like a tin of spilled currants, all those small bright specks.
Back at the shop the oven ticked. I scored the first loaf in one long clean line, the way she taught me, and the bread rose straight up to meet the light, the way it always had.
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