Black and grey fine line laurel wreath on the back of a hand, with a small crown on a finger and a small cross on the side of another finger.

Enlarged with AI from a smaller original

Laurel wreath, crown and cross on a hand

Fine line · Hand · Black and grey · Photo

A hand rests on black leather, showing a laurel wreath of outlined leaves with light shading across the back of the hand. A small outlined crown sits on one finger and a simple solid cross sits on the side of another finger. The black ink is crisp and the composition is spread across the hand against a plain dark background.

Fine line Botanical Hand Laurel Wreath Leaves Crown Cross

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

The laurel hedge along the vicarage wall had been cut back three times that spring, and Eunice Garside was still picking leaves out of her cardigan when the judges came up the path with their clipboards and sensible shoes. Nobody in Thornby had ever won the cup for best wreath. The Women's Institute had an unwritten rule that the prize went to whoever was brave enough to enter something that looked like a funeral, and Eunice had spent the whole of Tuesday night making sure it did.

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She had bound the bay and laurel together at the kitchen table with garden wire, working until the leaves on her fingers went sticky. Her sister Ada had sniffed at the small tin crown Eunice pinned to the front, the one that had come out of her late husband's cracker box every Christmas for thirty years. Eunice had scratched a cross into the underside of the ribbon with a hatpin, where nobody would ever see it unless they lifted the thing up to look, and she had told Ada that was the point of it.

Mrs Haddow, who had judged the marrows since before the war, lifted it up. She turned it slowly in her hands and went quiet for longer than was polite. "Who taught you the leaves like that?" she asked. Eunice said her mother had woven them for weddings in the lean years, when there were no flowers to be had for love or money. Mrs Haddow nodded, handed the card to the man from the Gazette, and the cup went to Eunice without another word.

That evening she carried the cup down to the churchyard and set it on her husband's stone. The wreath she left on the gatepost, where the wind could take it, the cross on the ribbon facing the road. The cup was heavier than she expected. She walked home with her hands empty for the first time since Easter, the bay still sharp on her fingertips.