Let go laughing script on a forearm
Fine line · Forearm · Black and grey · Photo
A black and grey tattoo of the words Let go Laughing in flowing script, set in two lines on the inner arm. The thin, even linework has looping flourishes on the capitals and descenders, with no shading. The photograph is greyscale and centred on the lettering, with a dark metal object visible at the left and right edges.
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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction
The bridge lamps at Holm numbered forty-one, and Mab Carrow knew each one by its creak. Her grandfather had lit them for forty years before his knees gave out, and now the round was hers, the long brass pole over her shoulder and a tin of wicks knocking against her hip. Nobody in town asked her age. They only asked whether the last lamp had caught.
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Ned had given her one rule, said slowly on the doorstep with his pipe gone cold. At the last lamp, the one hung over the deep water by the mill race, you never hold the pole for longer than it takes to lift. The pole is for lifting, not keeping. She had taken it for a riddle, the sort old men leave behind them like coins in a jar.
The fog came off the marsh that November smelling of cold iron. Mab reached the last lamp with her wick already burning, and the hook caught fast in the bracket. She pulled. The pole pulled back. Her boots slid on the wet boards and the rail struck her hip, and she held on, because holding was what her hands knew. Her grandfather's voice came up from the towpath, not loud, the way he spoke across a supper table. Let go, Mab. She let go and fell backwards onto the planks, and the pole clattered off into the dark. Then she was laughing, lying there with her hair in a puddle, because the fog had gone gold from beneath and the lamp swung free on its chain, lighting the water. Downriver the first boat of the morning steered by that light, and Ned's pole turned slowly in the reeds, waiting for someone else to lift it.
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