Black fine line script tattoo reading 'jeder tag ist ein geschenk' across the inner forearm, shown on a pale arm resting on a dark leather cushion.

German script quote on a forearm

Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A handwritten style phrase in German, 'jeder tag ist ein geschenk', runs across the inner forearm in thin black linework. The lettering is cursive with uneven, slightly looping strokes and sits in two lines, the second slightly lower and indented. The photograph is taken in ordinary indoor light against a dark cushion and a pair of blue jeans, with the arm as the clear focus.

Fine line Lettering Forearm Script Quote Handwriting

Find an artist for this

Take it to an artist as a reference. A good artist will make it yours rather than copy someone else's tattoo.

A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You hear the cage bell before you see the sun, and by the time the lamp is hooked on your belt your mother has already folded the note into the tin. She writes on the backs of grocery slips because the good notepaper went to the Christmas cards years ago. Her hand is quick and loose, the letters leaning into one another like men walking home from a late shift.

Keep reading

Today she has written only one line, and you read it on the bench outside the Konsum while the other lads argue about football. Jeder Tag ist ein Geschenk. Every day is a gift. The word ist has slid down beneath tag as if she ran out of room, or patience. You fold the slip twice and keep it in your breast pocket, where the coal dust cannot reach it, a small joke you have only ever made to yourself.

Down the pit that afternoon the roof talks: a tick, then a long sigh of stone. Your partner Ewald stops swinging his pick and listens with his whole face. Nothing falls. You both let out a breath at the same moment, and he laughs and says the mountain is only clearing its throat. You do not need to take the slip out to know what it says.

Above ground the rain has stopped and the slag heap steams in the low light. You walk the long road home with the tin rattling empty against your hip. At the gate your mother is already at the window with the lamp, and you lift your hand so she can see the folded paper still there, soft as cloth from being carried.