Pale pink fine script reading Just breathe with an outlined ribbon on the inside of a forearm, styled as lettering.

Just breathe script and ribbon on a forearm

Lettering · Forearm · Colour · Photo

A forearm shows the words Just breathe in flowing script, with a loop-ended ribbon outline beside the lettering. The linework is thin and the ink appears pale pink against the skin, with no shading. The text runs diagonally across the forearm, with the ribbon sitting at the upper right and the wrist at the top right edge of the frame.

Lettering Fine line Forearm Script Ribbon Awareness ribbon Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The tin of cocoa had been Mrs Okonedo's before it was mine, and it still held her buttons, all of them mismatched, which I refused to sort because sorting them would mean admitting she was not coming back to the kitchen table. Dad sat across from me with his tea going cold and his hands flat on the oilcloth, the way he sat when he wanted to say something and had decided against it. The radio on the windowsill was playing a brass band from somewhere in Yorkshire. I counted the buttons again. Thirty-one.

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The ribbon came up in conversation the week after the funeral. Not for her, exactly. Dad's sister had sent a card with a pink ribbon printed on the front and a line inside about strength, and Dad had put it behind the clock and never mentioned it again. I found it when I was looking for the spare key. On the back someone had written Just breathe in biro, the way you write a reminder to yourself on the back of a receipt.

I took the card to the chemist on Harrow Road, where the girl at the counter had a tattoo of a sparrow on her wrist and let me ask her the questions I couldn't ask anyone else. She said the words mattered less than where you put them. Put them where you'll see them when your hands are full, she said. So I did. I sat on the edge of the bath that evening with a biro and a steady hand and drew the letters on my own forearm, loops first, then the ribbon with its two soft tails, and I did not once look up at the mirror.

When Dad saw it at breakfast he didn't say anything. He reached across the table and turned my wrist gently toward the window, the way you'd check a plate for chips, and then he picked up the tin and tipped the buttons onto the oilcloth between us. We sorted them together until the light changed.