Close photograph of a pink awareness ribbon tattoo looped into an infinity shape with black script lettering reading faith, on the inner wrist.

Pink ribbon infinity with faith script

Lettering · Forearm · Mixed · Photo

A pink awareness ribbon is looped into an infinity shape, with the tail sweeping across the skin toward black cursive lettering that reads faith. The ribbon is filled with solid pink ink and outlined in black, while the script is in black linework. The photograph is taken close up at a slight angle, with the palm and hand visible at the top of the frame and a soft, blurred background at the left.

Lettering Forearm Awareness ribbon Infinity symbol Faith Script Lettering

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A story inspired by this tattoo · fiction

You learned the causeway the way your father taught you, by its posts. Six iron posts stand in the sand, each one painted a faded pink so the fishermen can see them through sea fog, and the road runs between them in a long loop that the tide erases and returns twice a day. From the bluff at Scar Head it looks like a ribbon someone tied loosely around the island and let slip into the water, and the islanders call it the Ribbon without ever thinking it odd.

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Your father's tide book was soft at the corners. He wrote the hours in pencil, never ink, because ink was for people who did not expect to be wrong. The morning the supply boat was late, you walked the Ribbon alone with the book buttoned inside your coat, counting posts under your breath. By the fourth post the water was sliding in over the weed, cold and quiet, and every part of you wanted to run. Running, he used to say, was how people drowned on roads they knew well.

So you walked. You kept the pink post on your left and the pencil figures in your head, and when the sand turned to shin-deep grey you did not look down at it. You looked at the slate board nailed to the seawall ahead, where someone had chalked the word faith in careful black script above the week's tides, and you kept your eyes on those letters until your boots found stone.

When you reached the wall and turned, the loop was already gone, smooth water where the road had been. The tide had come in at the minute your father had written, not a moment before, and you stood there a long time with the book wet in your hands, trusting the small pencil marks you had never once thought to doubt.