A woman in a dark linen slip dress shows two solid grey triangle tattoos on her upper chest and a fine line sketch tattoo on her upper arm and shoulder.

Grey triangles on chest and sketched line drawing on arm

Fine line · Chest · Black and grey · Photo

The photograph shows the upper body of a woman in a dark linen slip dress, with her face mostly cropped out of frame. Two solid grey triangles sit side by side on the upper chest, and a loose, sketchy line drawing of a bird-like figure with fine black linework extends across the shoulder and upper arm. The image is in black and grey with a soft, neutral background and natural light.

Fine line Geometric Chest Shoulder Upper arm Triangle Bird Line drawing Sketch

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The snow had shut the pass for nine days when the stranger came down the switchback road with a drawing board strapped to her pack. Mother gave her the attic room under the eaves, the one with two gable windows that looked out over the valley like a pair of slate triangles, and I carried up the coal scuttle because nobody else was willing to climb the stairs in that cold.

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She drew birds on everything. On the back of the bill of fare, on the flour sacks, on the frost of the kitchen window before the stove warmed it away. Her starlings were quick and fierce, mostly wing and sharp intent, but the one she spent three evenings on was a heron folded up like a dropped umbrella, all its weight gathered in the neck. I asked why a heron in a blizzard. She said herons stood still longer than anything else alive, and stillness was the hardest thing to draw.

The carter's boys cleared the road on the tenth morning with shovels and bad language. She paid Mother in silver and went up the valley without a word of goodbye, and she left the drawing board behind, though I have never been sure whether by accident. Under the washbasin I found the last sheet, pinned face down. It was the heron again, but she had shaded two triangles above its back, dark and heavy as wet slate, and below them the bird stood in a thin wash of meltwater, one foot lifted, waiting.

I pinned it above the kitchen stove, where the frost never reaches now. Every morning I check the window for birds, and every morning the heron is still there, one foot raised, as if the thaw were a decision it had not yet made.