Small black hexagon tattoo on the shoulder and fine script reading 'this too shall pass' on the upper arm of a woman lying on sand, her face hidden by a hat.

Hexagon shoulder and quote tattoo on upper arm

Lettering · Shoulder · Black and grey · Photo

A woman lies on sand with a black wide-brimmed hat covering her face and long blonde hair spread out beside her, wearing a white crochet crop top. A small hexagon-based geometric design in black ink sits on her shoulder, and a thin script line reading 'this too shall pass' runs along her upper arm. The photograph is shot from above in warm, sandy tones, with the tattoos in black and grey.

Lettering Geometric Shoulder Upper arm Hexagon Geometric shape Script Quote Sand Hat

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dad kept bees on the slag heap above Hollin Row, because nobody else would go up there and because the heather grew sweet on the black spoil. The hives were painted the same green as the chapel door. When the colliery laid off four hundred men in the spring of '84, he sold the clock off the wall and bought a second-hand smoker from a man in Barnsley, and he never once said the word strike in my hearing. He said the bees needed feeding.

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I was nineteen and furious with him for that. I went up the path every evening to shout at him through the smoke, and every evening he lifted a frame out of the box and showed me the cells, six sides to each one, fitted so tight a knife could not slip between them. "Nothing wasted," he said. "Each one holds what it's given and passes the rest along."

The strike ended in the autumn, badly, with the men going back for less. Dad did not live to see the second pit close. Before he died he asked me to scratch a line on his mother's old slate and hang it in the porch, so that anyone coming up the lane would have to read it. I did, in his square capitals, and beneath it I left a space.

Now the hives are mine and the slate has cracked down the middle, but the bees still come down to the heather every June. Some years are thin and some are gold. I take what the frames give me and tell the children from the new estate what he told me, that nothing stays and nothing has to.