Black fine line script tattoo reading imagine on the inside of a wrist, with a red, white and blue string bracelet tied just above it.

Imagine script on the wrist

Lettering · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo

A close photograph of a single word, imagine, written in black cursive script across the inside of a wrist. The linework is thin and even, with solid black ink and no shading, and the lettering runs slightly upward from left to right. A red, white and blue twisted string bracelet is knotted above the tattoo, and the background is softly blurred greenery.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Script Word

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

Dear Marguerite, the canal has frozen at the locks again, so the boat sits at Bratton Cut like a sleeping dog and I have had nothing to do but mend the stove and count the ducks. Your brother came aboard on Tuesday with a cake from the bakery in Devizes and a box of your old paints, which he said you had asked him to bring. I did not ask what you had wanted them for. I only sat with the box on my knees while the kettle sang and thought about the summer you painted the cabin roof sky blue and told the lock-keeper it was a secret weather system.

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You will laugh, but I have started a list on the back of the tide tables. Every evening I write one thing we could do if the ice ever gives up. Sail to Bristol and eat mussels off the quay. Buy a second-hand piano from a widow in Frome and teach the cat to hold the pedal. Pretend the Thames is the Seine for a whole week. Some of the items are foolish and two are not foolish at all, and I am not telling you which two, because you will only argue with me about it from wherever you are.

The bracelet you tied on my wrist before you left is still knotted above the little word you insisted I have inked there, and the red has bled a little into the blue, the way your stories always did. I catch myself looking at it when I should be looking at the water. It seems to me the word was never a promise to do anything. It was a reminder to keep my eyes open for the things the world might be quietly offering.

So here is the newest item, written in my worst hand: go and find you, on the towpath, with a crate of paints and no excuse. The ice will break by March. I will have the kettle on.